The  Road  Ib  Dumbiedykes 


Aivin  Howard  Sanders 


PS  ASS  f 


v  -TTY    ^  CALIFORNIA  T    "RT?  »  R.Y 


The  Road  To  Dumbiedykes 


The  Road 
To  Dumbiedykes 

Some  Rambling  Thoughts 
of  One  Who  Found  It 


By 
Alvin  Howard  Sanders 

Editor  "The  Breeder's  Gazette" 

Author  of  "The  Story  of  The  Herefords,"  "At  the 

Sign  of  the  Stock  Yard  Inn,"  etc. 


Chicago 

Sanders  Publishing  Company 
1920 


Copyright,  1916 

Sanders  Publishing  Company 

All  Rights  Reserved 


tfWJVERSIXT    F-- 


To  "Billy 


A  PIECE  of  land  not  very  large, 
Wherein  there  shall  a  garden  be, 
A  clear  spring  flowing  ceaselessly, 
And  where  to  crown  the  whole  there  should 
A  patch  be  found  of  growing  wood. 

—  HORACE. 


Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  A  BOY  AND  A  DOG     .     .     ,       9 
II.  A  BRICK  HOUSE  WITH  A  PAST    21 

III.  "THE     HEART     OF     MIDLO- 

THIAN"    .     .      .     ,     /    .     29 

IV.  THE  BLUEGRASS   CLAIMS    ITS 

OWN    .     .     ....     .     39 

V.  MIDSUMMER    NIGHT    ALARMS     55 

VI.  THE  COMING  OF  THE  DAWN   .     65 

VII.  DUMB  WALLS    .      .      .      .      .     81 

VIII.  THE  GARDEN  GATE     ...     89 
IX.  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  THE   FLY- 
ING SQUIRRELS    .     v     .      .     99 
X.  TOILERS  AND  IDLERS  OF  THE 

SHINING  HOURS.     .     .     .   113 

XI.  THE  RAIN  UPON  THE  ROOF  .   123 
XII.  FIRESIDE  FANCIES        .      .      .129 

XIII.  THE  BEGINNINGS  OF  TO-MOR- 

ROW    .     .     .      .     .     .      .139 

XIV.  BACK  TO  THE  BRIGHT  LIGHTS  145 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

CHAPTER  I 
A  Boy  and  a  Dog 

The  keeping  of  Collies,  Fox  Terriers 
and  in  fact  most  other  kinds  of  dogs 
in  cities  is  a  crime.  I  speak  of  course 
of  real  dogs,  not  those  poor  degenerates 
you  may  see  in  my  lady's  limousine  or 
lap.  These  may  be  interesting  to  the 
student  of  animal  breeding  as  illus- 
trations of  how  men  can  emasculate 
the  brute  creation  through  the  applica- 
tion of  well  understood  principles  of 
selection,  blood  concentration  and  out- 
crossing,  but  the  results  are  not  to  my 
mind  particularly  edifying. 

It  is  interesting  doubtless  to  know 
that  animals  that  are  all  body  with 
no  legs  can  be  produced.  It  is  inter- 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

esting,  I  suppose,  to  some  to  know  that 
a  dog  that  is  all  legs  and  snout,  pos- 
sessing no  middle,  can  be  bred.  It  is 
interesting  perhaps  to  see  a  breed  that 
has  no  nose  nor  brain,  but  what  is 
found  to  admire  in  such  freaks  is  a 
query  put  by  many  people  possessing 
sound  minds  in  sound  bodies.  How- 
ever, "de  gustibus  non  est  disputan- 
dum."  I  have  no  quarrel  with  those 
who  like  canine  canaries;  but  as  for 
myself  give  me  the  virile,  normal 
animal  that  bears  some  resemblance 
to  the  primal  product  of  the  wilds. 

I  love  dogs.  That's  why  I  don't 
own  one.  There  is  no  place  for  them 
in  town,  and  I  can  spend  only  a  few 
months  each  year  in  the  country. 
Moreover,  you  become  too  attached 
to  a  good  intelligent  pup.  He  grows 
into  your  affections  in  real  human 
fashion.  So  much  so  that  when  you 
lose  him  under  the  wheels  of  a  motor 
or  from  natural  causes  you  find  that 
too  strong  a  hold  has  been  laid  upon 
[10] 


A  Boy  and  a  Dog 


your  sympathies.  That's  why  you 
hear  of  so  many  "dog  cases"  in  the 
country  courts.  That's  what  moved 
Senator  Vest  to  say,  upon  a  certain 
memorable  occasion: 

Gentlemen  of  the  jury:  The  best  friend  a 
man  has  in  this  world  may  turn  against  him 
and  become  his  enemy.  His  son  or  daughter 
that  he  has  reared  with  loving  care  may  prove 
ungrateful.  The  people  who  are  prone  to 
fall  on  their  knees  to  do  us  honor  when  success 
is  with  us  may  be  the  first  to  throw  the  stone 
of  malice  when  failure  settles  its  cloud  upon 
our  heads.  The  one  absolutely  unselfish  friend 
that  a  man  can  have  in  this  selfish  world,  the 
one  that  never  deserts  him,  the  one  that  never 
proves  ungrateful  or  treacherous,  is  his  dog. 

Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  a  man's  dog  stands 
by  him  in  prosperity  and  in  poverty,  in  health 
and  in  sickness.  He  will  sleep  on  the  cold 
ground,  where  the  wintry  winds  blow  and  the 
snow  drives  fierce,  if  only  he  may  be  near  his 
master's  side.  He  will  kiss  the  hand  that  has 
no  food  to  offer;  he  will  lick  the  wounds  and 
sores  that  come  in  encounter  with  the  rough- 
ness of  the  world.  He  guards  the  sleep  of  his 
pauper  master  as  if  he  were  a  prince.  When 
all  other  friends  desert  he  remains.  When 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

riches  take  wings  and  reputation  falls  to  pieces, 
he  is  as  constant  in  his  love  as  the  sun  in  its 
journey  through  the  heavens.  If  fortune 
drives  the  master  forth  an  outcast  in  the  world, 
friendless  and  homeless,  the  faithful  dog  asks 
no  higher  privilege  than  that  of  accompanying 
to  guard  against  danger,  to  fight  against  his 
enemies,  and  when  the  last  scene  of  all  comes, 
and  death  takes  the  master  in  his  embrace  and 
his  body  is  laid  away  in  the  cold  ground,  no 
matter  if  all  other  friends  pursue  their  way, 
there  by  his  grave-side  will  the  noble  dog  be 
found,  his  head  between  his  paws,  his  eyes 
sad  but  open  in  alert  watchfulness,  faithful  and 
true  even  in  death. 

So  what's  the  use?  But,  getting 
back  to  our  original  proposition,  I  say 
that  the  confining  of  a  Collie  to  the 
dreary  monotony  of  back  yards  and 
city  pavements  is  putting  as  great  an 
outrage  upon  Nature  as  is  the  caging 
of  a  scarlet  tanager.  He  may  live 
for  a  while,  but  his  life  will  be  a  hollow 
mockery.  The  enforced  repression  of 
the  wanderlust  that  inheres  in  the 
active  brain  of  every  true  Fox  Terrier 
—  the  bravest  creature  of  his  size  in 

[12] 


A  Boy  and  a  Dog 


the  animal  world  —  is  as  cruel  a  pro- 
ceeding as  the  slow  murder  of  a  sky- 
lark behind  steel  wires.  Life  in  each 
case,  while  it  lasts,  is  indeed  a  ghastly 
failure. 

The  lot  of  a  country-bred  man  or 
woman  trying  to  be  happy  between  two 
brick  walls  in  a  city  flat  is  bad  enough. 
But  commonly  they  could  escape  from 
an  imprisonment,  often  self-imposed, 
if  they  only  would.  Frequently  they 
hold  within  their  own  grasp  the  key 
that  would  unlock  the  bars.  Not 
always,  to  be  sure;  and  when  fate 
ordains  that  they  shall  never  more 
regain  touch  with  the  out-of-doors, 
then  indeed  is  the  case  pathetic  beyond 
any  parallel  to  be  drawn  from  the 
brute  creation. 

I  once  knew  a  boy  who  at  sixteen 
years  of  age  was  captured  and  trans- 
ported from  gardens  and  apple  orchards 
to  a  hall  bedroom  in  a  boarding  house 
that  once  stood  one  city  block  from 
where  the  Blackstone  now  rears  its 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

graceful  front.  He  did  not  even  have 
the  melancholy  satisfaction  of  occupy- 
ing it  alone.  In  order  that  a  little 
more  might  be  saved  out  of  a  $10 
weekly  wage,  he  divided  both  room 
and  rent  with  a  fellow-boarder  who 
was  in  a  somewhat  similar  predica- 
ment. This  f.  b.,  by  the  way,  is  now 
a  man  whose  name  is  often  seen  and 
heard  these  days  in  connection  with 
important  local  and  national  affairs, 
and  the  old  partnership  on  Michigan 
Avenue  is  not  infrequently  recalled 
when  these  men  meet. 

The  boy  had  left  behind  him  in  the 
country,  among  other  things,  a  pony 
and  a  dog.  Naturally  there  was  no 
place  for  such  impedimenta  in  that 
upper  hallway.  Now,  parting  with 
a  pony  that  you  have  petted  and  fed 
for  years  is  no  joking  matter.  To- 
gether this  particular  pair  of  which  I 
speak  had  explored  every  roadway  for 
miles  around.  Together  they  had 
galloped  up  and  down  the  pastures 

[14] 


A  Boy  and  a  Dog 


where  the  cattle  grazed.  Together 
they  had  waded  in  the  water  where 
the  creek  was  forded.  They  under- 
stood each  other  perfectly,  and  you 
don't  know  just  what  fate  awaits  a 
companion  like  that  when  you  delib- 
erately take  your  way  to  the  city  streets 
and  leave  him  out  there  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  strangers.  Maybe  they  will 
be  kind  to  him.  I  don't  see  how  they 
could  be  otherwise  if  they  really  know 
him.  But  maybe  he  will  fall  into 
hands  that  will  not  appreciate  him. 
Maybe  he  will  be  abused.  So  saying 
goodbye  to  the  pony  of  your  youth  is 
one  of  the  first  real  sorrows  of  your 
life.  And  yet  those  words  of  George 
G.  Vest  cannot  fairly  be  applied  to  an 
equine  chum,  however  fond  you  may 
be  of  each  other.  Your  pony  will  not 
be  long  in  adapting  himself  to  the 
individuality  of  a  new  master.  A 
sufficiency  of  oats  and  hay  at  oppor- 
tune moments  will  go  a  long  way  to- 
wards reconciling  your  dear  old  pony 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

to  any  loss  he  may  fancy  he  has  suf- 
fered. For  even  as  the  prophet  saith: 
"The  ox  knoweth  his  owner  and  the 
ass  his  master's  crib." 

But  with  your  dog  it's  different. 
You  don't  really  know  what  grief  is 
until  you  are  a  boy  ruthlessly  dragged 
away  for  good  and  all  from  a  Collie 
you  have  owned.  Collies  are  peculiar 
dogs  —  shy  and  suspicious  of  strangers, 
but  tied  with  hoops  of  steel  to  one  who 
has  their  confidence.  Unlike  your 
roving  terriers,  all  boys  do  not  look 
alike  to  a  Collie.  He  takes  not  up 
with  the  first  fellow  he  may  chance 
to  meet,  no  matter  how  civil  be  the 
greeting.  He  does  not  make  friends 
readily.  He  is  chary  of  his  affec- 
tions. He  is  not  a  good  mixer.  With 
him  the  social  instinct  is  not  highly 
developed.  He  only  knows  his  own 
and  his  master's  own,  and  in  respect 
to  that  stands  ever  on  the  defense, 
and  in  this  sacred  service  he  will  do 
or  die. 

[  16] 


A  Boy  and  a  Dog 


But  there  was  no  place  for  him  nor 
any  other  dog  in  that  bedroom  there 
three  hundred  miles  away.  And  for 
the  first  time  the  boy  now  began  to 
realize  that  when  he  migrated  to  the 
great  city  by  the  lake  the  curtain  was 
falling  forever  upon  an  act  complete. 
Probably  this  Collie  would  have  been 
a  better  work  dog,  so  far  as  helping  in 
the  handling  of  the  live  stock  was  con- 
cerned, had  the  boy  not  played  with 
him  so  much.  This  doubtless  de- 
tracted from  his  selling  value  for 
practical  farm  purposes.  Many  dogs 
were  infinitely  his  superior  in  working 
flocks  and  herds,  but  whatever  he 
lacked  in  point  of  skill  at  the  heels  of 
sheep  or  cattle  he  more  than  made  up, 
from  the  boy's  standpoint,  by  the 
splendid  intimacy  of  his  constant  com- 
panionship and  the  zest  with  which 
he  entered  into  various  games  jointly 
devised.  And  one  sad  day  the  boy 
and  dog  had  their  final  romp.  The 
boy  knew  it  was  the  end,  and  his  heart 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 


was  in  his  throat,  but  the  dog  did  not; 
so  the  weight  of  the  impending  blow 
was  only  felt  by  one. 

The  boy  unpacked  his  little  trunk 
a  few  days  later  to  begin  serving  an  in- 
determinate sentence  at  office  work. 
One  morning  on  the  city  street  he 
passed  a  Collie  on  a  leash.  The  day 
was  warm  and  the  dog  was  muzzled. 
The  look  of  hopeless  despair  the 
country  boy  detected  in  that  Collie's 
eyes  has  not  yet  been  forgotten,  and 
he  vowed  then  and  there  that  he, 
for  one,  would  never  be  a  party  to 
any  scheme  looking  towards  the  trans- 
fer of  any  living  creature  of  the  open 
to  prison  pens  within  a  city's  walls. 
And  he  has  kept  the  faith. 

What  became  of  his  own  abandoned 
dog  he  never  knew,  nor  desired  to  know. 
He  did  not  seek  bad  news  where  he 
knew  there  could  be  none  that  was 
good,  but  he  always  believed  that  his 
Collie  must  have  died  sooner  or  later 
of  something  akin  to  a  broken  heart. 

[18] 


A  Boy  and  a  Dog 


Years  passed.  Engrossed  in  work 
and  saddled  with  ever-increasing  re- 
sponsibilities, the  man  had  little  time 
to  think  of  the  world  beyond  the 
gates;  but  he  often  dreamed  of  a  cer- 
tain shaggy  sorrel  pony  and  a  Collie 
racing  madly  out  and  back  again  in 
a  game  once  played  where  skies  were 
blue,  and  the  turf  was  green,  and  the 
grass  was  soft  and  thick  and  cool 
beneath  bare  feet. 


CHAPTER  II 
A  Brick  House  with  a  Past 

Something  like  twenty-five  miles 
from  the  great  city's  congested  centre, 
if  your  course  has  been  rightly  laid, 
you  will  come  upon  what  appears  to 
be  the  entrance  to  a  country  estate 
of  some  importance.  There  are  two 
brick  piers  with  gates  of  iron  which 
commonly  stand  ajar.  If  you  enter 
and  are  of  an  observing  turn  of  mind, 
you  may  note  in  passing  that  the 
designer  of  these  gates  has  used  as 
a  decoration  in  working  out  the  de- 
tail of  his  conception  the  figure  of  a 
heart. 

In  that  field  on  your  left  there  will 
be  corn  or  oats  or  meadow  —  depend- 
ing upon  the  stage  of  crop  rotation 
registered  for  that  particular  season  — 
[21] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

and  a  good,  rich,  level  forty  you  will 
find  it  too,  though  it  wants  tile.  That 
peculiar  "humpy"  condition  of  the 
turf  in  the  pasture  on  your  right  — 
which  is  not  a  part  of  the  property  of 
which  we  speak  —  reflects  even  more 
clearly  a  demand  for  drainage. 

The  driveway  will  lead  you  along  a 
row  of  stately  maples  at  the  end  of 
which  the  land  rises,  and  if  your  eyes 
are  keen,  as  you  round  a  sharp  curve 
up  a  slight  elevation,  you  may  catch 
a  glimpse  of  what  was  once  an  old 
farmhouse,  all  but  hidden  in  the  trees, 
where  it  is  aging  peacefully  in  deep 
seclusion. 

It  is  a  house  with  a  history.  Of  that 
make  no  doubt.  The  only  trouble 
is  we  don't  know  the  history.  How- 
ever, that  makes  no  real  difference. 
What  we  do  know,  and  what  must 
necessarily  have  been  the  situation 
in  the  years  long  gone,  will  enable  us 
to  contrast  without  special  difficulty 
its  past  and  present.  A  great  change 

[22] 


A  Brick  House  with  a  Past 

has  come  over  the  scene  since  one  day, 
now  more  than  twenty  years  ago,  a 
party  of  city  business  men  pulled  up 
at  the  old  house  to  look  over  the  farm, 
of  which  it  was  the  heart,  with  a  view 
towards  purchasing. 

It  seems  an  ordained  part  of  old 
Dame  Nature's  general  scheme  to 
obliterate  as  soon  as  possible  all  traces 
of  departed  activities.  Streets  and 
rails,  no  matter  what  their  importance 
as  commercial  arteries,  once  abandoned 
are  soon  claimed  by  grasses  and  other 
plants  appointed  for  such  tasks.  The 
apparently  indestructible  yields  at 
last  to  the  inexorable  levers  and  ful- 
crums  with  which  old  Father  Time  is 
so  generously  provided.  And  so  we 
find  that  year  by  year  the  vines  and 
trees  and  shrubbery  are  gripping 
tighter  and  tighter  in  their  sheltering 
embrace  these  old  brick  walls.  It  is, 
in  truth,  now  so  well  protected  from 
the  vulgar  public  gaze  that  unless  you 
know  just  where  it  stands  you  will 

[23! 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

miss  it  entirely  as  you  pass.  Indeed, 
were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  it  is 
the  subject  of  an  annual  overhauling, 
and  its  interior  kept  in  readiness  for 
guests  who  may  not  find  accommoda- 
tion elsewhere  upon  the  property  —  of 
which  it  is  now  a  more  or  less  unne- 
cessary part  —  the  porches,  windows, 
roof  and  floors  would  in  due  course 
fall  a  prey  to  the  operation  of  the 
natural  laws  that  work  unceasingly  in 
the  physical  world. 

With  my  own  hands,  some  years 
ago,  I  set  some  of  the  roots  that  now 
supply  leafy  cover  to  those  walls,  and 
for  this  act  I  am  sure  that  the  spirit 
that  dwells  within  is  duly  grateful. 
I  speak  thus  because  it  was  long  since 
vacated  by  once  happy,  frugal  and 
industrious  tenants,  and  possesses  now 
no  regular  occupants.  I  am  always 
sensible  of  some  unseen  presence  in 
such  cases.  Not  that  I  know  or  care 
anything  particularly  about  occult 
theories,  for  they  do  not  specially 

[24] 


A  Brick  House  with  a  Past 

interest  me;  but  it  pleases  my  fancy, 
now  and  then,  to  set  up  for  my  own 
mental  stimulation  some  presiding  ge- 
nius as  watching  ever  over  old  houses 
that  have  once  been  the  stage  of  hu- 
man weal  or  woe. 

You  will  listen  now  in  vain  for 
the  voices  of  the  children  playing  in 
the  garden.  They  have  disappeared. 
That  is  all  we  know  about  them.  The 
kettle  sings  no  more  its  song  of  cheer 
and  comfort  in  what  was  once  the 
kitchen.  And,  by  the  way,  does  any- 
one know  of  any  note  within  the  whole 
range  of  domestic  economy  so  sug- 
gestive of  real  creature  comfort  as  the 
busy  babble  of  the  vapor  as  it  finds  its 
sputtering  vent  through  dancing  lid 
or  steaming  spout?  We  do  not  hear 
it  often  enough  in  these  latter  days 
for  the  best  interest  of  the  family 
circle.  Homes  have  been  broken  up, 
I  have  no  doubt,  that  might  have  been 
held  together  had  husband  and  wife 
been  more  familiar  with  the  story  old, 

[25] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 


yet  ever  new,  told  by  the  cosy  kettle 
on  the  evening  fire. 

For  some  time  after  this  farm  was 
taken  over  by  its  new  proprietors, 
meals  were  occasionally  served  to 
those  whose  business  took  them  there 
in  the  old  dining-room  as  in  the  time 
of  the  original  builder  and  subsequent 
owners.  And  so  it  chanced  that  one 
day  I  sat  a-listening  to  the  kettle  sing- 
ing to  itself  as  I  waited  to  be  served. 
Straightaway  I  felt  myself  transported 
back  across  the  flood  of  years  to  a 
big,  old-fashioned  kitchen  in  a  farm 
home  far  away,  where  a  dear  old- 
fashioned  mother  held  her  own  delight- 
ful sway;  and  the  memories  that  came 
trooping  were  of  pies  and  cakes  and 
things  such  as  have  not  since  been  made 
at  all  for  epicures  or  kings.  But  food  is 
no  longer  to  be  had  in  this  old  brick 
house.  Its  commissary  department  is 
out  of  commission,  probably  forever. 

The  electric  bulb  has  of  course  sup- 
planted the  candles  and  the  lamps, 
[26! 


A  Brick  House  with  a  Past 

and  the  lanterns  that  once  lighted  the 
farmer  and  his  men  to  the  early  morn- 
ing work  gleam  no  more  in  the  dark- 
ness that  precedes  the  tardy  winter 
dawn.  Gone  also  is  the  big  frame 
barn  with  its  warm  stone  basement 
where  the  cattle  were  housed  from  the 
cold  and  storms.  Gone  are  the  stalls 
where  the  farm  teams  stood  to  their 
corn  and  oats,  and  rested  from  hard 
labor  at  the  plough.  Gone  the  great 
floor  where  the  implements  of  a  thrifty 
husbandry  were  safely  sheltered. 
Gone  the  great  loft  where  the  hay 
was  snugly  stowed,  and  ambitious 
hens  once  made  their  nests. 

Where  all  this  once  was  you  will 
now  see  a  handsome  terrace  and  a 
broad  flight  of  steps  banked  high  with 
flowers  and  shrubbery.  What  was  a 
typical  barnyard  is  now  a  lawn,  with 
a  double  line  of  maples  down  a  graveled 
walk;  and,  chief  change  of  all,  in  the 
very  centre  of  an  orchard  that  was 
doomed  a  great  Colonial  mansion 

[27] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

stands.  The  apple  is  indeed  a  sturdy 
tree,  even  in  our  icy  northern  clime,  if 
given  chance;  and  so,  out  in  front,  you 
still  will  find  a  few  brave  stragglers  of 
a  fruitful  race  that  refuse  persistently 
to  abdicate  their  place;  and  with  each 
recurring  springtime  they  spread  their 
fragrance  far  and  wide,  and  shower 
pink  petals  on  the  turf. 

A  transformation  absolute,  in  short, 
has  overtaken  both  homestead  and 
outlying  fields,  and  to  the  whole  a 
name  that  is  truly  freighted  deep  with 
history  and  romance  has  been  assigned. 


CHAPTER  III 

"  The  Heart  of  Midlothian" 

The  first  money  I  ever  invested  in 
books  of  a  permanent  character  went 
for  the  purchase  of  a  standard  Edin- 
burgh edition  of  the  Waverley  novels, 
embellished  with  excellently  executed 
steel  engraved  plates,  reproductions 
of  thoroughly  artistic  originals.  I 
bought  them  at  a  time  when  perhaps 
the  price  might  better  have  been  in- 
vested in  something  of  greater  practical 
utility.  Nevertheless  I  coveted  this 
particular  set  of  books  because  I  loved 
Scott  above  all  else  in  literature,  and 
I  insist  emphatically  that  I  love  him 
still.  There  they  all  are  now,  filling 
a  section  in  my  shelves  dearer  to  me 
than  any  other  in  the  library.  Not 
one  volume  is  missing  from  its  accus- 

[29] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

tomed  place.  True,  they  are  some- 
what worn.  They  surely  need  rebind- 
ing,  but  I  like  them  best  just  as  they 
are.  I  am  perfectly  well  aware  that 
in  setting  down  these  facts  I  am  in  the 
eyes  of  the  younger  generation  writing 
myself  into  a  day  that  has  long  since 
passed.  Nobody  buys  Scott  nowa- 
days, they  tell  me.  But  when  I  con- 
template contemporary  fiction  I  am 
quite  content  to  be  so  catalogued,  for 
Ivanhoe  and  Quentin  Durward,  Amy 
Robsart  and  Jeanie  Deans,  Richard- 
of-the-Lion-Heart  and  the  Sultan  Sala- 
din,  Meg  Merillies  and  Lorna  of  the 
Fitful  Head,  Prince  Charlie  and  Rob 
Roy,  and  all  the  rest  of  that  incom- 
parable company  are  as  near  and  dear 
to  me  still,  after  the  lapse  of  many  years, 
as  when  the  world  to  me  was  young. 

Many  things  have  happened  since 
that  day  of  the  long  ago  when  I  ex- 
changed my  hard-earned  cash  for  this 
precious  set  of  Scott.  Books,  pictures, 
souvenirs  and  gifts,  mainly  valuable 

[30] 


The  Heart  of  Midlothian 


because  of  their  associations  —  those 
belongings  that  make  life  worth  living 
—  have  since  accumulated;  but  I  can- 
not honestly  confess  that  I  prize  at 
the  present  time  any  of  my  possessions 
higher  than  the  still  fascinating  vol- 
umes that  portray  so  vividly  those 
beloved  heroes  and  heroines  of  old 
romance. 

He  who  crosses  auld  Berwick  "brig" 
and  rounds  the  hills  of  Lammermoor 
as  he  comes  upon  East  Lothian,  and 
knows  naught  of  Walter  Scott,  is  in- 
deed quite  altogether  unprepared  for 
understanding  and  appreciating  either 
the  North  country  or  its  people.  Of 
course  if  you  have  the  golf  bug  well 
developed  you  can  do  with  a  knowledge 
of  "Tarn"  Morris  and  St.  Andrews. 
I  am  fond  of  the  ancient  and  honorable 
Scottish  game  myself,  and  once  per- 
mitted the  lure  of  the  celebrated  sea- 
side links  to  draw  me  away  from  certain 
studies  in  other  lines  of  Scottish  activ- 
ity long  enough  to  play  nine  holes  on  a 

[31] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

windy  day  amidst  those  sand-dunes 
on  the  German  Ocean.  But  nine  such 
holes  were  quite  enough;  in  fact,  some- 
what more  than  sufficient.  "Jack" 
Forrest  will  freely  testify  to  that.  I 
will  only  remark  in  passing  from  an 
unpleasant  subject  that  there  is  one 
particularly  unnecessary  natural  haz- 
ard there  for  which  I  harbor  no  affec- 
tion whatsoever.  I  decline  to  publish 
my  card,  for  the  simple  reason  that 
I  do  not  court  the  jeers  and  ribaldry 
of  unsympathetic  souls.  In  fact,  I 
must  concede  at  the  outset  that  while 
I  have  some  acquaintance  with  the 
methods  underlying  the  grand  farming 
of  the  Lothians,  and  of  the  principles 
governing  the  production  of  "prime 
Scots"  for  the  Smithfield  market,  the 
ways  of  Scotchmen  who  can  drive  a 
golf  ball  250  yards,  straight  down  a 
fiercely-bunkered  course,  are  past  my 
finding  out. 

But  did  you  ever  view  the  rising  or 
the  setting  of  the  sun  from  Salisbury 

[32] 


The  Heart  of  Midlothian 


Crags  ?  If  you  know  Scott's  Scotland, 
and  have  ever  been  in  the  ancient 
capital  of  the  North,  you  may  have 
taken  Sir  Walter's  favorite  walk  at  the 
close  of  day.  And  if  it  chanced  to  be 
mid-June  you  would  not  have  had  so 
very  long  to  wait  for  the  glories  of  the 
dawn  itself,  so  short  are  the  hours 
of  darkness  at  that  season  of  the  year 
in  the  higher  latitudes. 

What  scenes  of  pomp  and  pageantry, 
what  tragedies,  what  triumphs,  have 
not  those  heights  looked  down  upon! 
The  joys  and  sorrows  of  a  people  dur- 
ing centuries  of  turbulence  struggling 
onward,  yet  ever  upward,  toward  the 
goal  to  which  they  have  finally  at- 
tained. There  is  the  line  of  the  old 
High  Street,  every  foot  of  it  historic, 
from  the  great  castle  on  the  rock  to 
Holyrood.  In  the  middle  of  the  old 
Grassmarket  a  tablet  imbedded  in  the 
pavement  still  carries  the  figure  of 
a  heart  —  the  same  heart  we  saw 
wrought  into  the  iron  fabric  of  the 

[33] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

gates  as  we  entered  the  roadway  a 
little  while  ago  leading  up  to  the  old 
brick  house.  And  if  you  have  read 
to  any  profit  the  enchanting  tales  of 
the  last  great  Scottish  minstrel,  you 
will  not  require  a  guide  to  interpret 
the  import  of  the  strange  inscription  — 
"The  Heart  of  Midlothian"— that 
has  challenged  the  attention  of  tour- 
ists for  several  generations  past.  You 
are  standing  upon  the  site  of  the  old 
Tolbooth  prison,  long  since  demol- 
ished, but  given  immortality  in  the 
realm  of  letters  by  the  sage  of  Abbots- 
ford.  Here  the  wayward  Effie  Deans 
awaited  execution,  while  poor  Jeanie 
made  the  long  journey  afoot  to  Lon- 
don to  beg  for  her  erring  sister  a 
pardon  from  the  crown.  The  world 
has  almost  canonized  as  a  saint  this 
heroine,  whose  actual  prototype  was 
brave,  truth-loving  Helen  Walker  of 
Dundee. 

Mid-Lothian!     The    open     country 
round  about  "Edina,  Scotia's  darling 


"  The  Heart  of  Midlothian" 

seat,"*  the  Athens  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
world!  There  stands  the  queenly  city, 
now,  as  ever,  the  rock  of  Scotland's 
hopes,  her  graceful  towers  and  hoary 
battlements,  her  halls  of  learning  and 
her  classic  monuments,  bathed  in  the 
mingled  sunshine  and  the  mists  that  lure 
the  purple  heather  from  the  distant 
Pentland  hills!  "None  know  her  but 
to  love  her."  May  she  endure  forever! 
Here  in  America  a  new  heart  in  a 
new  Midlothian  has  now  been  set.  It 
is  also  a  form  of  prison,  in  its  way  — 
one  that  brings  a  mild  form  of  grief  to 
certain  unfortunates  trapped  within 
its  walls.  But  this,  our  heart,  is  not 
a  gloomy  pile  of  cold  gray  stones  set 
up  to  mark  a  district's  geographic 
centre.  It  lies  imbedded  in  soft  earth 
and  verdure  in  the  midst  of  "green 

*The  Lothians  comprise  a  division  of  country  in  Scotland,  on 
the  south  border  on  the  Firth  of  Forth,  of  great  extent  anciently, 
but  in  modern  times  restricted  to  the  counties  of  Haddington  or 
East  Lothian,  Edinburgh  or  Mid-Lothian,  and  Linlithgow  or  West 
Lothian.  When  the  designation  Edinburghshire  is  used,  the  words 
"or  Mid-Lothian"  are  added  often,  Mid-Lothian  used  alone  not 
requiring  any  auxiliary  addition.  There  is  a  movement  on  foot 
to  adopt  the  terms  East  Lothian  for  Haddingtonshire,  and  West 
Lothian  for  Linlithgowshire,  exclusively,  so  as  to  establish  harmony 
of  designation. 

I  35) 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

fields  and  running  brooks,"  and  the 
only  tragedies  likely  to  be  enacted  in 
it  are  such  as  may  attach  to  temporary 
discomfitures  in  the  game  of  golf.  It 
is,  in  brief,  just  a  simple  heart-shaped 
hazard  nicely  calculated  to  punish  a 
"topped"  tee  shot  on  the  fourth  hole 
of  a  great  playground  for  tired  city  folk 
that  was  once  a  beautiful  farm  pre- 
sided over  by  an  old  brick  house. 

Here  have  hundreds  walked  their 
way  into  health  and  happiness,  and 
into  all  the  joys  that  go  with  solid 
friendships  and  congenial  companion- 
ships as  they  have  tramped  these  allur- 
ing links.  And  here,  too,  the  name  of 
the  old  "heart"  of  unhappy  memory 
has  become  invested  with  a  fairer 
fame  and  atmosphere;  let  us  say, 
with  some  of  the  humanizing  elements 
that  flow  from  the  exercise  of  the  simple 
arts  of  love  and  service  through  the 
employment  of  which  iron  bars  in 
Scotland  were  once  thrown  back  at 
the  gentle  touch  of  Jeanie  Deans. 

[36] 


"  The  Heart  of  Midlothian" 

And  so  it  comes  to  pass  that  we  have 
here  to  record  the  fact  that  the  gates 
whereby  we  reach  this  new  Midlothian 
swing  freely  ever  to  release  from  bond- 
age the  weary  wearers  of  a  city's 
chains.  Here  they  receive  indeed  the 
benediction  of  blue  skies,  God's  sun- 
light and  the  open  country.  It  is  of 
certain  phases  of  this  blessed  liberty 
amongst  the  clover  blossoms  that  I, 
a  hardened  galley  slave,  would  speak. 


CHAPTER   IV 

The  Bluegrass  Claims  Its  Own 

The  broad  porch  of  the  big  manor 
house  builded  by  the  buyers  of  the  Brick 
House  farm,  with  its  great  white  fluted 
pillars  and  "gallery,"  has  a  southerly 
exposure.  The  view  is  of  purely  pas- 
toral simplicity,  calculated  to  soothe 
and  rest  tired  nerves  and  eyes,  rather 
than  impart  any  special  mental  thrills. 

A  gentle  declivity  leads  down  to 
where  a  sinuous  brook  meanders  aim- 
lessly through  the  middle  foreground, 
losing  itself  finally  in  a  belt  of  timber 
on  the  left,  where  the  flood  waters  are 
impounded  by  a  dam.  The  backwater 
from  this  has  formed  a  small  lagoon 
which  serves  a  triple  purpose.  First 
of  all,  it  gives  golfers  a  good  water 
hazard  to  play  into  or  over.  Secondly, 

[39] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

down  in  the  deep  cover  of  the  wood 
near  the  concrete  wall  that  gives 
permanency  to  the  basin,  the  small 
boys,  who  have  to  be  amused  some 
way  when  not  engaged  as  caddies  on 
the  links,  find  here  entertainment  un- 
limited in  fishing  with  pin-hooks  for 
elusive  crabs  or  bull-heads.  To  be 
sure  the  boys  are  not  supposed  to 
cross  a  dead-line  that  has  been  set 
up  for  their  restraint,  but  what  nor- 
mally constituted  boy,  five  miles  away 
from  his  home  in  town,  loitering  about 
within  a  stone's  throw  of  a  typical  old- 
fashioned  swimming  hole  buried  deeply 
in  the  shadow  of  the  oaks,  could  resist 
a  temptation  to  break  a  mere  caddie- 
master's  ground  rule?  And  so  you  will 
find  them  there  frequently,  with  a  scout 
commonly  watching  for  the  stealthy 
approach  of  some  one  in  authority  bent 
on  spoiling  all  their  fun.  My  own  path 
takes  me  always  by  this  woodland 
pool,  but  I  never  could  find  it  in  my 
heart  to  drive  these  very  human  little 

[40] 


The  Eluegrass  Claims  Its  Own 

chaps   away  from  the  mysteries   that 
cluster  round  that  spot. 

In  the  earlier  days  real  muskrats  and 
woodchucks  were  to  be  seen  at  rare 
intervals  working  around  that  dam. 
They  are  gone  now,  but  what  boy  who 
had  ever  seen  them  there  could  ever 
forget  it  or  ever  dismiss  the  idea  wholly 
from  his  mind  that  they  are  probably 
in  hiding  somewhere  still,  and  that  by 
waiting  and  watching  patiently  enough 
the  little  furry  creatures  will  sooner  or 
later  be  seen  again  in  their  former 
haunts?  The  truth  is  I  haven't  the 
heart  to  drive  those  boys  away  from 
this  fascinating  nook  when  I  see  them 
enjoying  to  the  utmost  its  forbidden 
precincts.  On  the  contrary,  I  am  often 
sorely  tempted  to  stop  and  join  them  in 
their  explorations  or  meditations.  The 
noisy  bluejays  are  busy  in  the  branches 
overhead,  tiny  wavelets  are  breaking 
against  the  face  of  the  retaining  wall, 
unknown  forms  of  life  lurk  underneath 
the  surface,  and  a  rabbit  hurries  by. 

[41] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

Through  the  treetops  a  glimpse  of  an 
azure  sky  is  caught.  Here  indeed  is 
the  true  heart  of  Midlothian  to  be 
found,  and  at  this  shrine  I  often  stop 
alone  and  worship. 

The  third  purpose  served  by  our 
little  lakelet  is  strictly  utilitarian. 
Some  day  late  in  the  autumn  the  big 
valve  in  the  dam  is  opened.  The  water 
nearly  all  escapes  and  soon  is  on  its 
way  to  the  Little  Calumet,  and  thence 
into  the  bosom  of  the  big  lake  itself. 
The  bed  of  the  lagoon  is  cleaned,  the 
outlet  closed,  and  pure  water  pumped 
until  the  reservoir  is  again  bank  full. 
It  is  then  left  there,  deserted  by  all  its 
fair  weather  devotees,  to  await  the 
coming  of  the  power  that  shall  lock  it 
tightly  in  a  solid  sheet  of  ice,  which 
later  on  is  duly  harvested. 

Returning  to  the  wide  veranda  and 
resuming  our  survey  of  the  general 
landscape,  beyond  the  brook  an  un- 
dulating sea  of  verdure  leads  the  eye 
away  to  where  a  hedgerow  marks  the 

[42] 


The  Bluegrass  Claims  Its  Own 

southern  boundary  of  the  property. 
Beyond  this  —  the  line  of  a  public 
highway  —  you  catch  glimpses  of  corn 
and  oat  fields,  distant  woodlands,  and 
little  farmsteads  nestling  among  the 
trees.  Westward  a  well  equipped  and 
privately  conducted  scientific  agricul- 
tural experiment  station,  operated  by 
one  of  our  enthusiastic  back-to-the- 
landers,  is  revealed.  Its  great  water 
tower  and  the  big,  hospitable  house 
that  crowns  an  elevation  in  the  middle 
foreground  unite  to  make  Maple  Farm 
a  landmark  dominating  the  entire 
landscape  in  that  direction.  Guern- 
seys, Chester  Whites,  fancy  poultry, 
silos,  alfalfa  fields  and  a  hundred  other 
objects  of  interest  to  farm  folk  may 
here  be  found.  Back  of  this  a  partly- 
wooded,  broken  country  rolls  away 
towards  a  remote  range  of  hills,  behind 
which  the  setting  sun  goes  down  into 
the  little  valley  of  the  Des  Plaines 
River.  Originally  covered  entirely 
with  a  forest  growth,  clearings  here 

[43] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

and  there  have  introduced  the  bluegrass 
in  those  hills,  and  red  barns,  modest 
homesteads,  dairy  cows  and  duck 
ponds  greet  the  eye  of  such  occasional 
wanderers  as  find  their  way  into  this 
delectable  region,  which  is  really  pic- 
turesque and  as  yet  more  or  less  primi- 
tive. I  have  had  day  dreams  of 
Horatian  happiness  there  to  be  found 
sometime  in  real  retirement  on  some 
sequestered  Sabine  farm. 

There  was  a  time  when  what  is  now  a 
wide  expanse  of  grass  was  given  over 
to  the  plough,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact 
the  soil  was  never  specially  adapted 
to  successful  cropping.  The  wooded 
knolls  that  shut  away  our  outlook 
towards  the  east  really  constitute  the 
first  rise  of  land  you  meet  in  traveling 
westerly  from  the  sandy  shores  of  the 
lake  some  ten  miles  distant;  and  the 
stiff  rebellious  clays  of  which  these 
first  ground-swells  are  mainly  com- 
posed give  ample  evidence  of  having 
once  been  the  bed  of  a  great  bay  ex- 

[44] 


The  Bluegrass  Claims  Its  Own 

tending  up  to  the  higher  lands  farther 
west  that  form  a  natural  barrier  at  this 
point  betwixt  the  little  river  of  the 
plains  and  the  great  body  of  blue  water 
rolling  restlessly  beyond  the  Calumet. 
Notwithstanding  the  refractory  char- 
acter of  the  soil  upon  these  gentle 
slopes,  the  Brick  House  farm  was  made 
for  many  years,  through  the  amelior- 
ating influences  of  a  livestock  hus- 
bandry, to  produce  fine  yields  of  oats 
and  occasional  good  crops  of  corn. 
But  such  lands  primarily  belong  to 
bluegrass,  and  as  this  fitted  in  exactly 
with  the  plans  of  the  new  proprietors,  it 
was  not  long  after  they  took  possession 
that  mowers  and  rakes  replaced  plows, 
harrows,  cultivators  and  harvesters 
as  the  only  implements  in  use. 

The  major  portion  of  the  property 
spread  out  before  the  big,  new  house 
was  set  aside,  by  those  who  were  plan- 
ning this  co-operative  country  home, 
for  conversion  from  waving  grain  fields 
into  a  modern  golf  links,  and  needless 

[45] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

to  say,  to  those  who  know  the  nature 
and  habit  of  the  bluegrass,  it  did  not 
stand  long  upon  the  order  of  its  com- 
ing. Aided  and  abetted  during  the 
drouthy  summer  months  by  its  old 
friend  and  ever-faithful  ally  in  such 
work,  white  clover,  so  dear  to  our  good 
friends  the  busy  honey  bees,  the  occupa- 
tion of  the  land  which  the  cereals  had  so 
recently  surrendered  was  quickly  and 
successfully  accomplished.  And  pre- 
sently there  was  naught  but  beautiful 
green  turf  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach. 
The  bluegrass  loves  best  the  open 
sun.  Still  it  is  quick  to  take  advantage 
of  any  opening  afforded  in  our  western 
woodlands,  and  if  you  are  specially 
interested  in  seeing  it  at  its  best  —  or 
worst,  just  according  as  you  are  judg- 
ing it  from  the  standpoint  of  an 
agronomist  or  that  of  a  golfer  —  and 
chance  to  be  within  Midlothian's  gates, 
come  with  me  to  the  edge  of  the  grove 
just  under  the  brow  of  the  hill  in  front 
of  the  third  teeing  ground,  almost  any 

[46] 


The  Bluegrass  Claims  Its  Own 

time  from  early  June  to  late  November, 
and  I  will  show  you  a  matted  mass,  as 
luxuriant  a  sod  as  central  Kentucky  it- 
self may  boast.  And  speaking  of  this, 
for  the  benefit  of  all  who  love  the  sight 
and  the  touch  of  a  bluegrass  sward  and 
yet  know  not  the  existence  of  this  liter- 
ary gem,  let  us  here  interpolate  a  classic: 

Next  in  importance  to  the  divine  profusion 
of  water,  light  and  air,  those  three  physical 
facts  which  render  existence  possible,  may  be 
reckoned  the  universal  beneficence  of  grass. 
Lying  in  the  sunshine  among  the  buttercups 
and  dandelions  of  May,  scarcely  higher  in 
intelligence  than  those  minute  tenants  of  that 
mimic  wilderness,  our  earliest  recollections  are 
of  grass;  and  when  the  fitful  fever  is  ended, 
and  the  foolish  wrangle  of  the  market  and 
forum  is  closed,  grass  heals  over  the  scar  which 
our  descent  into  the  bosom  of  the  earth  has 
made,  and  the  carpet  of  the  infant  becomes 
the  blanket  of  the  dead. 

Grass  is  the  forgiveness  of  Nature  —  her 
constant  benediction.  Fields  trampled  with 
battle,  saturated  with  blood,  torn  with  the 
ruts  of  cannon,  grow  green  again  with  grass, 
and  carnage  is  forgotten.  Streets  abandoned 

[47] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

by  traffic  become  grass-grown,  like  rural  lanes, 
and  are  obliterated.  Forests  decay,  harvests 
perish,  flowers  vanish,  but  grass  is  immortal. 
Beleagured  by  the  sullen  hosts  of  winter,  it 
withdraws  into  the  impregnable  fortress  of  its 
subterranean  vitality  and  emerges  upon  the 
solicitation  of  spring. 

Sown  by  the  winds,  by  wandering  birds, 
propagated  by  the  subtle  horticulture  of  the 
elements  which  are  its  ministers  and  servants, 
it  softens  the  rude  outlines  of  the  world.  It 
invades  the  solitude  of  deserts,  climbs  the 
inaccessible  slopes  and  pinnacles  of  mountains, 
and  modifies  the  history,  character  and  destiny 
of  nations.  Unobtrusive  and  patient,  it  has 
immortal  vigor  and  aggression.  Banished 
from  the  thoroughfare  and  fields,  it  bides  its 
time  to  return,  and,  when  vigilance  is  relaxed 
or  the  dynasty  has  perished,  it  silently  resumes 
the  throne  from  which  it  has  been  expelled  but 
which  it  never  abdicates. 

It  bears  no  blazonry  of  bloom  to  charm  the 
senses  with  fragrance  or  splendor,  but  its 
homely  hue  is  more  enchanting  than  the  lily 
or  the  rose.  It  yields  no  fruit  in  earth  or  air, 
yet  should  its  harvest  fail  for  a  single  year 
famine  would  depopulate  the  world. 

No,  those  are  not  enemy  trenches 
nor  modern  military  fortifications  you 

[48] 


The  Eluegrass  Claims  Its  Own 

see  as  you  look  out  over  the  great 
central  field.  They  are  merely  traps, 
pits,  bunkers,  cops  and  mounds  of 
fifty-seven  different  formations,  set 
to  catch  the  unwary  —  and  sometimes 
the  very  wary  —  golfer,  and  they  add 
not  only  to  the  picturesqueness  of  the 
landscape  but  occasionally  to  the 
language  employed  by  some  of  those 
who  traverse  it. 

I  should  like  to  tell  you  what  the 
farmers  round  about  here  really  think 
of  the  game  that  engages  the  attention 
of  so  many  of  those  who  frequent  the 
Club,  to  the  exclusion  of  other  matters 
of  interest,  but  a  fair  statement  of 
their  views  I  do  not  think  could  pass 
the  censor.  If  they  were  native-born 
American  or  English,  Scotch  or  even 
French  farmers  they  might  and  prob- 
ably would  stand  for  it,  but  as  an  in- 
tensely practical,  hard-working,  frugal, 
serious-minded  folk  of  German  descent 
they  look  upon  the  devotion  of  160 
acres  of  good  grazing  to  such  a  silly 

[491 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

thing  as  golf  as  little  less  than  an 
economic  crime.  Think  how  many 
cabbages  those  fairways  might  pro- 
duce! Think  of  the  onions  that  could 
be  grown  upon  the  heavily-fertilized 
and  perfectly-irrigated  putting  greens! 
Count  the  cows  that  could  be  pastured 
upon  the  grass  that  runs  to  seed  there 
every  summer! 

These  Bremen  township  people, 
however,  are  not  averse  to  taking  what 
they  can  out  of  the  place.  The  proper 
upkeep  of  the  links  involves  the  em- 
ployment of  many  men  and  teams. 
The  property  is  maintained  at  about 
the  same  expenditure  of  money  as  a 
city  park  of  like  extent.  A  complete 
water  and  drainage  system  is  installed. 
Men  and  horses  from  the  surround- 
ing countryside  are  frequently  requisi- 
tioned by  the  management.  Not 
that  there  is  always  quick  response; 
for  there  is  not.  The  rush-time  at  the 
Club  is  commonly  coincident  with  pe- 
riods of  unusual  activity  on  the  farms. 

[50] 


The  Bluegrass  Claims  Its  Own 

Corn-planting  or  cultivating,  hay- 
making, the  oat  harvest  or  other  field 
work  at  home  prevents  the  average 
farmer-neighbor  from  selling  service  or 
power  to  anyone  else.  When  they  do 
work  for  a  Country  Club  they  of  course 
charge  all  the  traffic  can  be  made  to 
bear;  which  is  natural,  of  course,  and 
all  proper  enough.  What  good  is  a 
Club  anyhow  if  those  who  deal  with  it 
as  outsiders  may  not  milk  it? 

And  yet  with  all  the  sport  these  same 
thrifty  people  make  of  the  big  and 
beautiful  links  in  their  midst,  and  of 
those  who  play  over  them,  I  note  that 
they  themselves  go  in  for  some  little 
recreation  now  and  then.  Pitching 
horseshoes  at  pegs  in  the  ground  is 
good  fun.  I  have  enjoyed  many  an 
hour  at  it  myself  when  my  lot  was  cast 
upon  a  farm.  And  it  doesn't  hurt 
these  good  German  farmers  particu- 
larly that  I  can  see  to  indulge  now  and 
then  in  this  competitive  contest  of 
skill.  To  win  requires  a  steady  hand 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 


as  well  as  a  good  eye.  The  only 
objection  I  enter  is  that  one  so  seldom 
sees  them  at  it.  They  would  be  the 
better  for  more  of  that  sort  of  thing,  and 
their  wives  and  cows  and  pigs  and  geese 
would  not  suffer  either. 

Every  hard-working  individual  re- 
quires relaxation.  It  doesn't  make  any 
difference  whether  he  be  the  owner  of 
a  farm  or  factory;  whether  he  be 
wrestling  with  a  working  dairy  in 
the  country  or  a  battery  of  type-setting 
machines  in  town.  And  golf  has  come 
to  be  the  accepted  physical  salvation 
of  those  who  are  in  heavy  city  harness. 

Not  every  man  whose  business  holds 
him  to  the  city  can  afford  to  buy  and 
assume  the  care  of  several  hundred 
acres  of  favorably-situated,  easily- 
accessible  land.  And  not  all  of  those 
who  could  afford  to  indulge  themselves 
in  this  luxury  care  to  take  on  the  added 
responsibilities  that  are  inseparable 
from  the  attempted  operation  of  an 
individual  farm.  But  nearly  every- 

[52] 


The  Eluegrass  Claims  Its  Own 

body  can  enjoy  the  benefits  of  those 
life-saving  stations,  now  so  freely  dis- 
tributed around  the  fringes  of  all  our 
cities,  known  as  Country  Clubs. 

Personally  I  have  for  years  had  a 
longing  to  possess  a  well-equipped 
farm,  where  I  might  busy  myself  try- 
ing to  unravel  some  of  the  mysteries 
surrounding  the  perpetuation  and 
modification  of  animal  and  plant  life. 
I  should  want  good  horses,  good  dogs, 
good  cattle,  good  motors,  alfalfa,  blue- 
grass  and  some  mellow  grain  land. 
Also  a  good  library,  and  a  big,  old- 
fashioned  fireplace.  And,  above  all, 
good  friends  who  would  enjoy  it  with 
me.  However,  I  don't  believe  in  a 
man's  trying  to  ride  two  or  three 
horses  at  once.  I  have  had  one  in 
town  that  has  demanded  all  my 
thought  thus  far,  and  so  the  farm  still 
waits  until  such  time  as  I  may  turn 
my  back  upon  the  city's  work  forever 
to  end  my  days,  as  they  began,  midst 
rural  scenes. 

[53] 


CHAPTER  V 

Midsummer  Night  Alarms 

For  many  years  Billy  and  the 
girls  and  I  had  been  "doing"  the  sum- 
mer resorts.  Or,  rather,  the  resorts 
had  been  "doing"  us.  In  the  early 
days  we  had  been  the  rounds  of  the 
inland  lakes.  Two  weeks  was  then 
about  the  limit  of  the  time  I  could 
afford  to  spend  away  from  work.  We 
slept  on  hard  beds,  fought  flies  and 
mosquitoes,  caught  a  few  pickerel  and 
pond  lilies,  had  an  occasional  hay- 
ride,  and  went  back  to  the  city  im- 
agining we  had  had  a  wonderful  time. 
These  annual  dog-day  expeditions  were 
gradually  extended  until  we  found 
ourselves  at  length  at  distant  seashore 
or  mountain  summer  places,  the  dis- 
comforts and  expense  increasing  pro- 

[551 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

portionately  with  the  distance  traveled. 
We  wound  up  with  a  summer  in 
Europe.  Finally  Billy  threatened  to 
break  down  under  the  strain  of  this  sort 
of  thing,  and  we  viewed  with  equal 
alarm  the  thought  of  another  summer 
in  the  "stuffy"  city  house  or  an  outing 
at  so-called  resorts  at  home  or  abroad. 
It  was  at  this  juncture  that  I  walked 
one  day  in  the  early  spring  through 
the  edge  of  the  Midlothian  oaks,  and 
that  was  the  beginning  of  the  end  of 
one  family's  vacation  troubles. 

I  took  title  to  a  wooded  knoll  that 
looked  out  upon  a  wide  expanse  of 
verdure,  with  nothing  to  impede  the 
sweep  of  the  prevailing  southwest 
summer  breeze,  or  mar  the  beauty  of 
the  sunset.  We  let  the  contract  for 
a  cottage-bungalow  and  barn,  and 
ninety  days  later  took  possession. 
That  was  the  third  of  August,  and  this 
is  what  straightway  happened. 

The  first  night  in  the  country  no- 
body could  go  to  sleep;  it  was  so 

[56] 


Midsummer  Night  Alarms 

desperately  still.  A  harmless  little 
screech  owl  was  trilling  somewhere  in 
the  dark  recesses  of  the  grove.  That 
was  all.  But  it  didn't  sound  a  bit  like 
the  clang  of  the  motorman's  bell,  nor 
yet  like  a  Klaxon  horn.  If  it  had  it 
would  doubtless  have  sent  us  all  into 
a  sound  slumber  at  once,  so  readily 
does  one  accustom  his  ear-drums  even 
to  the  operations  of  a  boiler  factory 
running  nights  next  door.  We  were 
tired,  and  had  sought  the  pillows  early. 
But  first  one  and  then  another  member 
of  the  household  called  out  in  protest 
against  the  infinite  quiet  of  the  night. 
The  katydids  had  not  yet  reported. 
Their  date  here  is  about  the  fifteenth 
of  August,  the  month  so  dear  to  insects 
of  high  and  low  degree.  That  orches- 
tra, therefore,  had  not  yet  commenced 
its  rasping  rhapsodies.  And  so  the 
hours  dragged  their  weary  length 
along,  until  a  white-robed  figure  pres- 
ently put  in  a  stealthy  appearance 
at  my  bedside,  by  way  of  informing 

is?] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

me  in  whispers  tense  that  I  must  come 
with  her  to  the  open  window  and 
listen.  There  was  a  burglar  prowling 
around  somewhere  in  the  yard !  It  was 
an  old  man,  she  knew,  because  she 
heard  him  cough!  Now,  just  how  it 
was  figured  out  that  our  midnight 
intruder  was  well  along  in  years  I 
have  never  been  able  to  make  out. 
But,  anyhow,  the  bronchial  trouble,  or 
whatever  the  inciting  cause,  presently 
induced  another  cough,  which,  from 
a  one-time  intimacy  with  "the  lowing 
herd,"  I  was  not  long  in  diagnosing  as 
of  bovine  origin,  and  emanating  from 
neighbor  Clark's  adjacent  pastuie. 
So,  after  an  argument  more  or  less 
drawn  out,  in  the  course  of  which  my 
alleged  knowledge  of  cows  was  called 
into  point-blank  question,  I  induced 
the  flock  to  settle  down  again  in  search 
of  slumber.  Needless  to  say  that  after 
the  mere  suggestion  of  a  housebreaker 
skulking  somewhere  in  the  lilacs,  all 
slept  with  one  eye  and  both  ears  open, 

[58] 


Midsummer  Night  Alarms 

and  those  who  thus  avariciously  look 
for  trouble  frequently  have  little  diffi- 
culty in  finding  it  —  or  that  which 
serves  the  same  purpose. 

For  what  seemed  an  eternity  of  time 
naught  but  the  ticking  of  the  clock,  the 
chirping  of  crickets,  the  distant  bark- 
ing of  a  dog  or  the  drowsy  call  of  some 
restless  chanticleer  on  a  neighboring 
farm  broke  the  deep  silence  of  this  our 
first  midsummer  night  in  the  depths 
of  the  real  country.  When  the  solitude 
was  disturbed,  however,  it  was  broken 
properly.  Suddenly,  and  without 
warning  of  any  kind,  there  was  a  rush 
and  a  roar,  followed  by  a  desperate 
crash  on  the  floor  below!  The  shock 
upon  nerves  already  over-strained  may 
be  better  imagined  than  described. 
All  hands  —  or  rather  feet  —  hit  the 
floor  at  the  same  instant.  What  was 
it?  What  dreadful  thing  had  hap- 
pened squarely  within  the  cottage 
walls  ?  Probably  the  burglar  had  fallen 
headlong  over  a  piece  of  furniture! 

[591 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

Anyhow,  I  reasoned  to  myself,  he  had 
never  intended  any  such  demonstra- 
tion as  that,  and  unless  he  had  broken 
his  neck  in  the  fall  he  had  doubtless 
made  rapid  tracks  in  the  outer  dark- 
ness for  tall  timber.  And  so  I  mus- 
tered up  courage  for  a  frontal  attack 
upon  an  ambushed  enemy. 

Backed  by  all  the  females  in  the 
house  —  we  had  no  boy  to  send  to 
the  front  —  I  made  a  cautious  descent 
into  the  darkness  below,  bearing  a 
lighted  candle.  What  better  mark  a 
burglar  could  desire  I  am  at  a  loss  to 
suggest.  The  last  step  was  safely 
reached,  however.  Somewhat  to  my 
own  disappointment  I  had  not  yet 
been  shot.  Moreover,  as  yet  I  saw 
nothing  to  shoot  at  myself.  Every- 
thing was  in  order,  just  as  we  had  left 
it  on  retiring  for  the  night.  The 
doors  were  all  closed,  and  the  locks 
had  not  been  sprung.  Ditto  the  win- 
dows. All  was  mystery.  But,  let  us 
think  a  moment!  Before  closing  up 
[6ol 


Midsummer  Night  Alarms 

for  the  night  Billy  had  carefully  drawn 
down  all  the  new  and  lively-running 
shades.  Of  that  she  was  certain.  But, 
see  here !  One  of  these  is  now  up  tight 
against  the  roller  at  the  top  of  the 
casing!  We  breathed  again.  The 
case  was  clear.  At  the  psychological 
moment,  after  the  household  had  been 
worked  up  by  the  episode  of  the  cough- 
ing cow  to  a  keen  sense  of  impending 
danger,  this  shade  with  a  powerful 
spring  had  taken  upon  itself  the  re- 
sponsibility of  flying  up  in  the  dead 
of  night  at  the  full  limit  of  its  utmost 
speed.  I  never  knew  that  one  of 
these  rollers  could  cause  so  dire  an 
explosion.  But  in  the  still  watches 
of  a  noiseless  night  the  drop  of  a  pin 
is  sometimes  as  the  fall  of  a  brick. 

A  neighbor  across  the  way  also  had 
some  nervous  members  of  his  house- 
hold, and  proposed  some  time  later 
that  it  might  be  a  good  scheme  to  put 
a  night  watchman  on  the  job.  As 
it  seemed  to  be  a  case  of  "women  and 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

children  first"  I  readily  acquiesced, 
and  a  steady-going  fellow,  with  good 
references  as  to  his  personal  character, 
was  duly  employed  to  scout  all  night 
through  the  shadows  of  the  surround- 
ing oaks.  He  was  of  course  duly 
armed,  and  a  sense  of  safety  immedi- 
ately pervaded  all  the  neighborhood. 
Unfortunately  we  had  not  taken  the 
trouble  to  get  references  as  to  the 
amount  of  gray  matter  carried  under 
the  new  watchman's  hat.  He  was  a 
serious-minded  German,  and,  as  now 
develops,  with  little  sense  of  humor 
in  his  mental  makeup. 

The  last  thing  we  would  hear  at 
night  would  be  his  reassuring  tread 
upon  the  grass,  or  down  the  road.  He 
did  not  sleep  on  the  job.  That  seemed 
obvious.  Of  course  we  did  not  lie 
awake  all  night  to  make  sure  of  that 
fact,  but  about  a  week  after  we  put 
him  on  the  watch  we  had  proof  that 
he  did  keep  going  after  we  were  safely 
launched. 

[62] 


Midsummer  Night  Alarms 

A  revolver  shot,  followed  by  a 
second  and  a  third,  rang  out  loudly  on 
the  midnight  air  not  fifty  paces  distant 
in  the  border  of  the  wood.  Although 
somewhat  dazed  and  startled  when 
thus  rudely  wakened,  we  thought  it 
all  over,  and  concluded  that  Hans 
had  no  doubt  gallantly  routed  some 
marauder  who  was  threatening  our 
peace  and  safety.  We  heard  nothing 
further,  and,  after  first  congratulating 
ourselves  on  this  proof  of  our  own 
prudence  in  arranging  for  protection, 
decided  to  wait  until  morning  to  hear 
the  story.  The  night  passed  off  with 
no  further  alarm. 

"Well,  Hans,"  I  asked  next  day, 
"what  was  the  trouble  last  night? 
Did  you  get  your  bird?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  rejoined,  "I  got  him." 

"You  did?  What  was  it?  Tell  me 
all  about  it." 

"Well,  you  see,  efery  night  dot  owl 
he  come  into  dot  tree.  He  stood  there 
looking  right  at  me  with  both  his  eyes. 

[63] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

And  now  I  got  him."  And  he  grinned 
as  he  reflected  upon  what  he  merely 
considered  convincing  evidence  of 
good  markmanship  such  as  should  be 
valued  by  an  appreciative  employer. 

I  will  lay  a  wager  now  that  this 
fellow  hasn't  figured  out  yet  why  he 
was  not  retained  to  watch  over  our 
slumbers,  and  has  not  yet  recovered 
his  equanimity  at  being  discharged 
upon  the  spot  as  an  impossible  "  fat- 
head." 

These  experiences  of  the  cow  with 
the  cough,  a  window-shade  running 
wild  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  and  a 
watchman  with  no  targets  but  inno- 
cent owls  in  the  trees,  afforded  about 
all  the  evidence  necessary  to  establish 
our  complete  confidence  in  our  further 
security.  So  we  began  then  and  there 
to  laugh  at  fears,  and  put  on  flesh;  and 
now  we  no  longer  lie  awake  or  get  up 
and  seek  the  cause  of  any  disturbance 
whatsoever  between  the  sunset  and 
the  morn. 

[64] 


CHAPTER  VI 

The  Coming  of  the  Dawn 

No  painting  of  its  type  appeals  more 
powerfully  to  my  imagination  than 
Guido  Reni's  Aurora  strewing  flowers 
before  the  chariot  of  the  sun  god. 
The  only  trouble  about  it  is  that  it 
is  a  ceiling  painting;  but  opposite  the 
entrance  of  the  Casino  Rospigliosi 
just  off  the  Via  Quirinale,  where  this 
great  mural  triumph  may  be  seen  in 
Rome,  there  is  a  table  upon  which  you 
will  find  a  hand-mirror  in  which  the 
marvelous  coloring  may  be  studied 
with  more  or  less  satisfaction.  And 
that  reminds  me  of  a  little  story  of 
the  Sistine  Chapel. 

Some  years  ago  Billy  and  Bess  and 
I  were  in  a  Baedeker  brigade  ostensibly 
studying,  with  the  aid  of  little  mirrors 

[65] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 


supplied  by  the  custodian,  the  inspira- 
tions of  Michael  Angelo  on  the  ceiling 
of  that  world-famous  chamber  of  the 
Vatican.  I  was  of  course  deeply  im- 
pressed by  the  majesty  of  the  great 
master's  conception  of  the  Creation, 
the  Fall  from  Grace,  and  the  Deluge, 
and  turning  to  call  the  attention  of 
Bess  (act.  16)  to  the  marvelous  effect 
produced  in  certain  figures  by  fore- 
shortening, I  saw  to  my  amazement 
that  she  was  apparently  taking  no 
interest  in  the  proposition  whatsoever. 
Just  why  I  should  expect  a  schoolgirl 
in  her  teens  to  go  into  ecstasies  over 
these  dingy  old  religious  pictures  I 
do  not  know.  But,  making  no  allow- 
ances for  the  difference  in  our  ages 
and  point  of  view,  I  only  saw  that 
she  was  busy  primping,  with  the  aid 
of  the  little  papal  mirror  in  her  hand, 
and  not  looking  at  the  ceiling  at  all. 
Now  to  me  this  seemed,  if  not  just 
sacrilegious,  a  bit  frivolous,  and  I  said 
somewhat  testily,  I  fear: 
[66] 


The  Coming  of  the  Dawn 


"My  dear  girl,  do  you  imagine 
I  brought  you  four  thousand  miles  to 
this  famous  place  merely  that  you 
might  adjust  your  bangs  here  in  these 
Sistine  Chapel  mirrors?" 

Needless  to  say,  Billy  came  to  her 
rescue,  even  as  Biddy  rushes  to  the 
defense  of  an  assaulted  chick,  and  I 
was  duly  humbled.  I  have  always  be- 
lieved, and  believe  now,  that  they  were 
both  doing  the  same  thing.  In  fact, 
I  will  go  further  and  assert  it  as  my 
opinion  that  fully  fifty  per  cent  of  the 
female  visitors  in  the  chapel  that  day  — 
and  probably  every  other  day  before 
and  since  —  only  need  powder  puffs, 
furnished  by  the  guides,  along  with 
the  hand  mirrors,  to  convert  the  Sistine 
Chapel  into  a  popular  beauty  shop. 

Well,  anyhow,  to  see  the  Aurora's 
glowing  glories  you  perforce  must  use 
a  mirror.  It  is  the  one  painting  in 
Europe  I  should  like  to  own  and  have 
under  my  own  roof,  but  there  is  at 
least  one  reason  why  that  is  scarcely  a 
[67] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

feasible  proposal.  However,  I  have 
consolation  in  respect  to  that.  I  can 
show  you  any  May  morning  from 
the  casements  of  Dumbiedykes  the 
original  of  Guido  Reni's  inspiration. 
It,  too,  is  a  ceiling  proposition;  a 
picture  projected  first  but  very  faintly 
upon  the  dark  canvas  of  the  waning 
night,  but  developed  across  the  great 
blue  vault  with  such  a  subtle  turning 
on  of  lights  that  for  the  space  of  per- 
haps an  hour  you  will  be  truly  spell- 
bound in  the  grip  of  the  eternal  mystery 
that  precedes  the  final  dazzling  advent 
of  Phoebus  Apollo  himself  in  his  car  of 
fire. 

Probably  you  had  rather  sleep. 
Well,  so  had  I,  as  a  regular  procedure, 
but  out  at  Dumbiedykes  we  are  apt  to 
retire  not  so  very  long  after  the  feath- 
ered tribes  have  settled  for  the  night. 
Nine  o'clock  often  finds  us  in  our  nest, 
but  I  have  discovered  that  as  the  world 
grows  older  I  do  not  seem  to  require  as 
much  sleep  as  in  earlier  times.  There  is 
[68] 


The  Coming  of  the  Dawn 


that  brown  thrush  in  the  barberry 
hedge.  She  turns  in  every  night  as  soon 
as  the  darkening  shadows  begin  to  fall 
across  the  lea,  and  stirs  not  at  all  again 
until  the  sunlight  calls  her  forth  to  her 
accustomed  tasks.  I  am  no  thrush. 
I  can  and  would  get  up  frequently  with 
the  fabled  lark  if  there  were  any 
around,  but  the  much-touted  species 
of  song  and  story  does  not  register  at 
Midlothian.  And  so  it  sometimes 
happens  that  I  awake  long  before  the 
first  gray  tones  outside  have  given 
silent  notice  of  the  passing  of  another 
night,  only  to  find  that  there  is  no  sign 
of  life  in  air  or  sky  but  one  —  the 
crowing  of  the  roosters  on  the  neigh- 
boring farms. 

Theoretically,  Chanticleer  is  sup- 
posed to  announce  the  onset  of  Aurora 
and  the  Hours.  Practically,  he  does 
nothing  of  the  kind.  Evidently  he 
suffers  terribly  from  insomnia.  Not 
only  that,  but  he  seems  to  have  little 
consideration  for  the  faithful  spouses 
[69] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 


by  his  side  on  every  hen-roost.  In 
brief,  the  owl  of  world-wide  nocturnal 
celebrity  has  little  on  the  gallinacious 
male.  Roosters  may  settle  down 
amidst  their  wives  for  a  time.  Pos- 
sibly they  may  stand  it  until  after  the 
midnight  hour  has"  struck,  but  after 
that  let  any  one  bird  in  any  old  place 
in  any  community  where  poultry  abide 
send  out  his  challenge,  and  it's  all  off 
at  once,  so  far  as  the  further  keeping 
of  the  peace  in  the  henneries  of  that 
particular  neighborhood  is  concerned. 

I  once  spent  a  short  vacation  at  Bon 
Air  in  the  edge  of  the  beautiful  little 
city  of  Augusta,  Georgia,  and  I  am 
prepared  to  assert  that  nowhere  else 
in  all  the  world — so  far  as  my  experi- 
ence in  two  hemispheres  extends — are 
there  so  many  roosters  working  on  the 
night  shift  and  overtime  as  in  the  sub- 
urbs of  that  winter  capital.  Why 
these  Augustan  cocks  kept  up  their 
clarion  calls  so  lustily  and  persistently 
I  never  knew.  Possibly  there  was  a 
[70] 


The  Coming  of  the  Dawn 


tacit  agreement  that  it  was  poultry- 
wise,  in  that  particular  part  of  Dixie, 
to  have  as  many  sentinels  on  duty  as 
possible  through  the  dark  time.  May- 
be the  rivalry  for  the  honor  of  heading 
the  various  establishments  in  that 
region  was  for  some  reason  or  other 
especially  keen. 

I  was  told  by  a  lady,  upon  the  occa- 
sion of  a  visit  to  Belgium  some  years 
ago,  that  the  women  who  go  to  the 
fairs  or  markets  in  Flanders  to  select 
male  birds  for  breeding  purposes  base 
their  choice  wholly  upon  the  relative 
strength  of  lung  power  —  ergo  con- 
stitution —  as  evidenced  by  the  crow- 
ing of  the  cocks  in  competition,  the 
birds  with  the  most  vociferous,  long- 
distance voices  being  universally 
sought.  Anyway,  if  you  ever  go  to 
Augusta  and  hear  one  long  drawn-out 
call  in  the  far  distance,  answered  first 
by  one  and  then  by  another  bird  until 
about  fourteen  thousand  join  the 
swelling  chorus,  the  challenge  passing 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

completely  around  the  deep  amphi- 
theatre of  the  southern  night,  I  pray 
you  do  not  make  the  mistake  of 
assuming  that  it  is  necessarily  time  to 
get  up,  for  probably  it  isn't. 

I  wish  someone  would  tell  me  why 
a  rooster  crows  at  all.  What  is  his 
idea  about  it,  and  what  do  you  suppose 
staid  old  Biddy  there  alongside  him  on 
the  roost  thinks  of  his  night  messages 
down  the  line?  I  have  often  thought 
that  if  I  were  a  hard-working  hen,  after 
scratching  and  traveling  in  barnyard, 
field  and  garden  all  day  long,  making 
my  own  living  and  that  of  a  greedy 
brood  of  youngsters  beside  —  and  that 
too  with  precious  little  help  from  the 
grandiose  old  rooster  —  I  would  draw 
the  line  on  this  hooray  business  be- 
tween midnight  and  the  dawn,  and 
if  sitting  within  reach  would  give  him 
a  peck  he  would  not  soon  forget.  If 
the  whole  disturbed  sisterhood  would 
take  a  hand  in  such  chastisement  surely 
the  head  of  the  household  would  be 
[72] 


The  Coming  of  the  Dawn 


beaten  into  making  terms.  From  the 
fact  that  they  do  not  do  so  I  infer  that 
the  old  girls  rather  like  these  nocturnes 
in  all  sorts  of  keys,  or  at  least  become 
indifferent  to  them,  otherwise  they 
wouldn't  stand  for  them.  I  suppose 
that  some  of  "the  younger  set,"  the 
pullets,  with  life  still  largely  in  the 
future,  may  perhaps  find  sweet  music 
in  those  mighty  efforts,  but  the  ma- 
trons of  the  flock  surely  must  weary  of 
them  ere  daylight  comes  to  cut  the 
crowing  short. 

Having  shown  that  there  is  not  ne- 
cessarily any  real  relationship  between 
Aurora  and  the  roosters,  let  us  now 
assume  that  it  is  say  3 130  A.M.  of  the 
1 5th  day  of  May.  That  dog  over 
there  on  the  old  Rippet  place  is  barking 
about  something  concerning  which  he 
probably  knows  nothing,  but  apart 
from  that  peace  reigns.  Unseen  hands 
have  already  been  busy,  however, 
setting  the  stage  for  the  transformation 
scene  about  to  be  enacted.  The  stars 
[731 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 


have  lost  their  sparkle.  Through  gra- 
dations imperceptible  to  human  sensi- 
bilities, the  sable  hangings  of  the  night 
are  silently  shifted  westward  on  the 
wings  of  the  morning  breeze.  The 
world  is  still  asleep;  terrestrial  anima- 
tion apparently  suspended  —  except- 
ing always  in  the  henneries.  Out  of 
steel-gray  shadows  now  emerge  faint 
outlines  of  familiar  objects  in  the  land- 
scape. In  the  east  thin  shafts  of  a 
light  impalpable  pierce  the  dissolving 
gloom.  In  the  far  west  a  bank  of 
purple  follows  the  retreat  of  night. 
The  plaintive  cry  of  a  hungry  lamb  is 
heard,  and  again  that  dog  at  Rippet's! 
I  know  perfectly  well  that  the  trees 
and  bushes  all  around  are  full  of  ten- 
ants, all  but  ready  to  burst  into  their 
May-morning  song,  but  as  yet  no  sound 
reveals  a  single  bird. 

I  do  not  have  the  temerity  to  wake 

up  the  rest  of  the  household  to   ask 

them  to  study  with  me  the  beauty  of 

the  now  onrushing  dawn.    I  once  tried 

(74) 


The  Coming  of  the  Dawn 


to  get  Billy  out  from  a  closet  in  which 
she  had  taken  refuge,  while  I  went 
into  raptures  over  the  Satanic  blazing 
grandeur  of  a  wild  electric  midnight 
storm.  She  loves  Nature  too,  but 
not  in  her  (Nature's)  wilder  moods,  nor 
yet  at  4:00  A.M.  Had  I  asked  that 
she  join  me  in  watching  the  earth 
awake,  I  should  probably  have  been 
requested,  with  more  or  less  gracious- 
ness,  to  look  at  the  spectacle  as  long  as 
I  liked  myself,  but  to  please  allow  her 
to  get  her  morning  nap,  and  mail  my 
account  of  the  performance  later,  if  I 
liked.  And  so  I  sit  alone. 

On  the  stroke  of  four  a  crow  caws 
down  there  in  the  timber  by  the  bridge; 
whereupon  a  robin  from  some  secret 
place  about  the  lawn  indulges  in  a 
drowsy  chirp.  Some  other  morning 
this  sleepy  note  from  somewhere  under- 
neath the  window  may  precede  the 
call  of  the  big  black  brother  in  the 
woods.  In  fact,  sometimes  one  starts 
the  ornithological  breakfast  ball  about 
[75] 


The  Road  to  Dumbie 'dykes 

these  premises,  and  again  the  other; 
so  I  do  not  undertake  to  rank  the  order 
of  their  rising.  I  only  know  that  both 
prepare  to  begin  the  operations  of  the 
day  before  any  of  their  nesting  neigh- 
bors have  given  any  outward  evidence 
of  intent  to  go  to  work.  It  is  surprising 
how  immediate  is  the  response  of  the 
other  crows  and  robins  to  the  initial 
caw  or  chirp.  The  crows  are  at  once 
alert  and  scolding  vigorously.  That 
is,  it  sounds  like  scolding.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  presume  Mrs.  Crow  looks 
upon  old  Jim's  voice  as  the  best  in  the 
community,  and  what  seems  to  us  a 
family  row  is  but  the  expression  of  a 
real  Corvine  affinity. 

Cock  Robin  does  not  launch  himself 
at  once  into  the  cheery  roundelay  for 
which  he  is  so  famous,  and  yet  he  does 
not  indulge  in  any  extended  prelude 
to  that  finely-finished  performance. 
He  just  tosses  off  a  few  disjointed 
fragmentary  notes  by  way  of  testing 
out  his  tubes,  and  then  springing  for- 
[76] 


The  Coming  of  the  Dawn 


ward  to  the  center  of  some  convenient 
stage  releases  that  resounding  reveille 
that  serves  at  once  as  love-song,  call 
and  challenge.  And  how  quickly  all 
his  kind  join  in  to  swell  this  morning 
carol  to  the  dawn!  Mind  you,  the 
sun  is  not  yet  risen.  Robin  does  not 
wait  for  that.  Neither  does  the  turkey 
gobbler.  The  "turk"  is  one  of  the 
very  early  birds,  and  Tom  loses  no 
time  in  trying  to  impress  his  impor- 
tance upon  .the  farmyard  population. 
About  the  same  time  that  the  robins 
wake,  your  gobbler  spills  a  series  of 
those  bronchial  ebullitions,  the  like  of 
which  is  not  to  be  located  elsewhere  in 
the  entire  realm  of  vocal  acrobatics. 
Just  why  such  really  beautiful  birds 
as  the  turkey  and  the  peacock  should 
have  been  condemned  to  walk  the 
earth  with  such  ideas  of  music  in  their 
silly  heads  presents  one  of  the  un- 
solvable  riddles  of  creation. 

In  a  hollow  in  the  oak  the  flickers 
have  a  nest.    Roused  by  the  robin's 

[77] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 


call,  a  sleepy  little  head  now  appears 
in  the  aperture;  eyes  blink,  and  the 
owner  settles  back  out  of  sight  un- 
doubtedly for  forty  more  blessed  winks. 
An  empty  wagon  is  rumbling  down  the 
road.  Clark's  calves  are  bawling  for 
their  breakfast.  Evidently  the  farm 
hands  are  stirring  somewhere  for  in 
the  distance  pigs  are  squealing.  I 
know  that  note.  It  calls  for  corn. 
Hello!  Again  the  flicker's  face,  framed 
in  solid  oval  oak.  This  time  the  bird 
is  fully  roused.  She  perches  for  an 
instant  in  the  entrance  to  the  tree's 
interior,  yawns,  and  takes  an  observa- 
tion. Although  I  am  but  a  few  arm's 
lengths  away,  she  does  not  know  it, 
or  if  she  does  gives  no  sign  of  interest. 
She  looks  first  up,  then  down;  now  side- 
ways, then  hops  out,  clings  for  a 
moment  to  the  rough  tree  trunk,  then 
wings  her  way  to  where  she  knows  a 
good  fat  grub-worm  waits. 

About  4*15  a  mocking  bird  perches 
on  the  topmost  branch  of  our  tallest 
[78] 


The  Coming  of  the  Dawn 


tree,  and  the  song  service  to  the  rising 
sun  is  on  in  earnest.  Easily  the  leader 
of  all  that  company  in  point  of  per- 
sistency and  sustained  sweet  flow  of 
full-throated  melodies,  his  accom- 
paniment is  played  in  riotous  confusion 
by  bluejays,  cat  birds,  robins,  spar- 
rows, crows  and  thrushes,  and  on  the 
roof  the  redheads  pound  the  drums. 
While  all  this  is  at  its  height,  across 
the  greenery  of  the  fields  the  first  long 
horizontal  rays  announce  the  advent 
of  his  flaming  majesty. 

From  out  the  cover  of  the  hedge 
now  comes  gray  Molly  Cottontail. 
She  stops,  looks  and  listens  warily,  and 
is  on  her  dainty  way.  And  then  a 
strange  thing  happens.  As  suddenly 
as  it  all  began  the  celebration  stops. 
By  five  o'clock  all  is  as  silent  as  before 
the  first  crow  cawed.  The  singing 
ceases.  The  choir  as  an  organized 
body  has  been  dismissed.  What  does 
it  mean?  Breakfast.  Everybody  busy. 
That 'sail. 

[79] 


CHAPTER  VII 

Dumb  Walls 

Some  places  fairly  name  themselves, 
some  are  christened  simply  by  their 
owners,  while  still  others  have  their 
titles  thrust  upon  them.  It  is  to  this 
latter  category  that  the  naming  of  the 
cottage  Dumbiedykes  must  be  referred. 

Away  down  upon  the  .western  shores 
of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  the  old  town  of 
Corpus  Christi  lies  in  the  sands  await- 
ing the  future.  It  really  has  a  past 
that  is  full  of  interest,  but  the  world 
for  the  most  part  hears  little  and  per- 
haps cares  less  for  the  ancient  settle- 
ment. You  are  here  upon  the  edge  of 
a  famous  cattle  country,  but  a  range 
giving  way  rapidly  now  before  the 
advance  of  the  man  with  the  hoe  and 
the  drainage  ditch.  A  little  way  in 
[81] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

the  north  you  would  strike  the  famous 
ranch  of  Charles  P.  Taft,  property  of 
the  brother  of  our  worthy  and  most 
outrageously  maligned  ex-President. 
Far  in  the  south  where  the  Nueces 
enters  the  great  gulf  is  Santa  Gertrudes, 
the  2,000,000  acre  ranch  under  the 
clever  management  of  Robert  Kleberg, 
son-in-law  of  the  late  proprietor,  Cap- 
tain Richard  King  of  ante  bellum  fame. 
In  the  west  you  will  not  have  far  to 
drive  before  you  will  come  to  the  en- 
trance gate  of  the  Rancho  de  los 
Laureles,  late  the  property  of  the  Texas 
Land  and  Cattle  Company,  and,  in  the 
hands  of  that  corporation  under  the 
supervision  of  a  canny  Scot,  one  Cap- 
tain John  Todd. 

You  are  here  in  a  land  of  magnificent 
distances.  This  Laureles  Ranch  has 
in  recent  years  been  sold  to  Mrs.  King, 
and  added  to  the  royal  domain  of 
Santa  Gertrudes  which  it  adjoined 
along  the  Nueces  boundary;  but  at  the 
time  Billy  and  I  visited  it  some  years 
[82] 


Dumb  Walls 


ago  the  Todds  were  still  in  control  and 
lived  upon  the  ranch  in  a  long,  low, 
rambling  one-story  headquarters  situ- 
ated some  ten  miles  from  the  front 
gate.  These  great  properties  under 
fence  were  really  like  principalities  in 
the  old  world,  presided  over  with  an 
iron  hand  by  the  owner  or  manager, 
with  the  aid  of  course  of  a  Roman 
Catholic  priest  to  teach  and  confess  the 
numerous  Mexicanos  constituting  the 
help  universally  employed  indoors  and 
out.  Quite  a  town  this  Laureles  at 
the  time  of  our  visit,  with  its  as- 
sembled tenant  houses,  church,  stabling 
and  the  various  buildings  and  corrals 
usually  to  be  seen  about  the  seat  of 
power  on  a  modern  cattle  ranch. 

Here  remote  from  civilization,  long 
leagues  from  any  neighbors,  surrounded 
as  far  as  eye  could  reach  by  the  dead 
level  reaches  of  enormous  pastures, 
where  the  coyotes  called  about  the 
house  at  night,  and  rattlers  were  a 
common  sight,  Captain  John  Todd,  an 
[83] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 


educated  Scot,  and  his  wife,  Patricia 
Clay,  of  gentle  Border  birth,  lived  in 
comfort  and  dressed  for  dinner  every 
night.  You  can't  deny  a  Briton-born 
his  "tub"  or  his  dinner  coat  no  matter 
where  you  may  maroon  him.  He  will 
cling  to  his  inherited  habits  in  spite  of 
all  and  any  ordinary  obstacles.  And 
so  we  spent,  once  upon  a  time,  a  most 
delightful  holiday  as  members  of  a 
jolly  party  at  this  hospitable  ranch- 
house  of  the  southeast  Texas  plains. 
There  were  long  gallops  on  the  ponies, 
or  rides  in  the  "ambulance"  by  day, 
and  "doings"  every  night.  Five 
o'clock  tea  came  in  between  of  course. 
But  as  darkness  settled  down  upon  the 
range  there  came  the  glow  of  lamps,  the 
radiance  of  ladies  in  evening  dress,  the 
cheery  tinkle  of  cracked  ice,  good  ser- 
vice, a  famous  dinner,  coffee  and  cigars, 
then  music,  singing,  maybe  dancing, 
or  charades,  and  at  last  "good  night" 
out  on  the  porch  beneath  the  brilliant 
southern  stars! 

[84] 


Dumb  Walls 


It  was  during* one  of  these  Olympian 
evenings  that  the  hostess  asked  us 
what  name,  if  any,  we  had  chosen  for 
the  house  we  had  been  building  in  the 
new  Midlothian.  Upon  being  advised 
that  the  little  place  was  nameless  yet, 
she  said  at  once:  "I  have  it  —  'Dum- 
biedykes'!"  and  then  my  Scott  came 
back.  I  had  but  to  recall  one  of  the 
opening  scenes  in  "The  Heart  of 
Midlothian."  And  yet  I  asked,  "Why 
'Dumbiedykes'?" 

"Well,"  Mrs  Todd  replied,  "You 
know  in  Scotch  a  dyke  is  a  wall. 
Dumbie  (pronounced  dummy)  dykes 
would  be  dumb  or  silent  walls.  You 
will  have  friends  and  boon  companions 
with  you  often.  Many  good  times  will 
doubtless  be  enjoyed.  Dumb  walls 
tell  no  tales.  What  name  more 
apropos?" 

And  then  and  there  I  was  duly  made 
to  kneel  and  receive  a  special  christen- 
ing as  the  "Laird  of  Dumbiedykes,"  a 
patent  for  which  title,  duly  signed  and 
[85]  . 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 


decorated  with  varicolored  official- 
looking  seals,  was  duly  issued  by  the 
mistress  of  Laureles  Ranch,  and  the 
same  now  hangs  upon  the  said  dumb 
walls  of  Dumbiedykes,  where  those 
who  may  question  the  correctness  of 
this  weird  tale  may  have  all  doubts  as 
to  the  regularity  of  the  procedure  quite 
removed. 

Scott's  old  Laird  of  Dumbiedykes 
possessed  one  trait  only,  so  far  as 
I  can  figure  out,  to  which  I  should  care 
to  lay  any  claim  whatsoever.  On  his 
deathbed  he  said,  among  many  other 
things,  to  "Jock,"  his  son  and  heir: 

"Jock,  when  ye  hae  naething  else 
to  do,  ye  may  be  aye  sticking  in  a  tree; 
it  will  be  growing,  Jock,  when  ye're 
sleeping. " 

Many  is  the  tree  and  shrub  I've 
"stuck  in"  during  my  time  at  the 
Brick  House  farm.  You  may  find 
them  on  the  lawn.  One  in  particular, 
a  Rocky  Mountain  blue  spruce,  of 
which  I  am  very  fond.  The  spireas 
186] 


Dumb  Walls 


in  that  circle  where  the  automobiles 
turn  and  the  fancy  sumac  in  the  centre; 
the  dogwoods  and  the  willows  by  the 
creek;  the  Rosa  Rugosas  along  the 
south  front  of  the  Mansion  House. 
Yes,  and  they  have  grown,  sure  enough, 
while  we  all  have  been  asleep,  and  now 
add  a  little  something  to  the  total  sum. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

The  Garden  Gate 

I  am  finishing  these  notes  under  the 
shade  of  one  of  the  oaks  that  seduced 
me  into  making  the  original  drive  for 
personal  liberty  and  privacy  during 
the  heated  term.  Fussing  with  her 
pansies  there  is  Billy.  You  who  knew 
her  just  before  we  found  this  retreat 
in  an  out-of-the-way  corner  of  the 
world  would  not  know  her  now.  She 
was  always  fair  enough  —  at  least  to 
me  —  but  the  fact  is  she  is  now  flirting 
desperately  with  two  other  /'j,  for 
which  two  g'j  —  golf  and  gardening  — 
are  primarily  responsible. 

Since  my  earliest  recollections  I  have 
ever  been  fascinated  by  the  first  fore- 
casts of  spring  as  evidenced  by  vegeta- 
tion. I  knew  where  the  peonies  and 
[89] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 


bleeding  hearts  were  making  ready 
underneath  dead  leaves  to  send  up  their 
first  red  signals  of  a  life  resumed. 
And  as  the  melting  snows  started  into 
activity  the  drains  and  ditches  that  had 
their  sources  hidden  in  the  woodlots, 
day  after  day  I  followed  the  flowing 
water  far  afield.  Great  journeys  have 
I  taken  upon  those  occasions,  en- 
grossed intensely  in  the  fortunes  of 
chips  or  sticks  that  I  had  launched 
upon  the  rushing  currents.  Many  a 
disaster,  too,  I  have  witnessed  on  those 
flood  waters  of  the  early  spring  among 
the  pussy-willows,  before  the  little 
boats  could  find  safe  anchorage  in  some 
quiet  pool  below  the  rapids.  Aye, 
and  I  have  seen  some  shipwrecks  since, 
in  the  broader  stream  of  human  ex- 
perience; and  decidedly  more  tragic. 

When  the  color  begins  to  deepen  on 
the  dogwoods  late  in  March  a  subtle 
something  tells  me  I  shall  soon  be 
headed  down  the  road  to  Dumbie- 
dykes. And  when  we  first  haul  up  at 
[90] 


The  Garden  Gate 


the  garden  gate  the  one  green  thing  to 
greet  us  there  each  year  is  the  never- 
failing  Iris.  In  Greek  mythology  the 
name  was  borne  by  the  swift  messenger 
whose  service  rendered  Juno  was 
identical  with  that  of  Mercury  to 
Jupiter  and  her  flight  as  she  did  the 
bidding  of  the  goddess  queen  was 
marked  by  the  rainbow  in  the  heavens. 
Our  modern  Iris  waits  not,  however, 
the  appearance  of  April  showers,  but 
rises  like  the  crocus  from  its  bed  of 
snow,  bringing  to  a  waiting  world  the 
welcome  message  that  the  spring  is 
here.  Fleur-de-lis,  native  lily  of  the 
low-lands,  the  improved  varieties  of 
Iris,  both  Japanese  and  German,  pro- 
duce their  feathery  plumes  of  gold 
and  purple  while  yet  their  tardy  sisters 
sleep. 

A  few  real  native  bluebells  make 
their  home  underneath  the  oaks,  put- 
ting out  their  pale  blue  pinkish  blos- 
soms, and  departing  before  the  trees 
above  them  waken  from  their  slumbers. 
[91) 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

The  lilies  of  the  valley  fabricate  their 
tiny  little  cups,  and  resign  themselves 
quickly  to  the  business  of  rootmaking 
for  another  season.  And  while  these 
busy  early  risers  are  heralding  the 
coming  of  the  great  procession  of  the 
floral  year,  the  flowering  shrubbery  is 
not  lagging. 

The  hedge  of  Japan  quince  can 
always  be  depended  on  for  its  charm- 
ing rose-red  blossoms,  put  out  simulta- 
neously with  the  dark  green  foliage. 
Lilacs  of  course.  Graceful  and  sweet 
are  the  improved  white  and  Persian 
sorts  in  favored  localities,  but  the  old 
vulgaris  cares  so  little  where  you  ask 
it  to  ply  its  beneficent  vocation,  as 
hedge  or  clump  or  single  specimen,  that 
I  love  it  as  I  do  an  apple  tree  for  its 
astounding  sturdiness. 

Around  the  doorway  we  planned  to 
have  a  snowdrift  in  the  month  of  May. 
There  is  of  course  but  one  way  to  this 
—  the  spirea  Van  Houttei  or  bridal 
wreath;  and  in  all  the  world  there  is 
[9*1 


The  Garden  Gate 


no  fairer  sight  than  great  banks  of  this 
at  flowering  time.  As  cover  for  the 
fence  along  the  road  we  chose  syringas 
—  the  mock-orange  of  our  youth — vari- 
ous varieties,  all  hardy,  vigorous,  pure 
white,  some  highly  scented  and  growing 
to  fine  stature.  Two  of  these  planted 
near  the  east  wall  of  the  cottage  have 
reached  the  eaves  above  the  bedroom 
windows  on  the  second  floor,  and  nod 
a  sweet  good  morning  to  our  guests. 

Along  the  front  we  wished  a  hedge 
that  would  turn  back  anything  and 
yet  be  highly  ornamental,  and  we  have 
it.  I  defy  any  ordinary  creature  to 
make  its  way  through  my  Berberis 
Thunbergii  in  its  twelfth  year!  No 
winter  is  too  cold  for  it!  No  summer 
too  hot.  It  is  a  thing  of  beauty  and  a 
joy  forever,  except  to  those  who  may 
court  undue  familiarity.  Fern-like 
foliage  from  May  until  October  when 
the  first  frosts  paint  it  like  the  rose, 
and  scarlet  berries  pendant  on  each 
thorny  branch  until  forced  off  in  April 
[93] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 


by  new  growth.  Wild  crabs  have  we 
also  in  one  corner;  and  their  early 
blossoms  bear  me  back  to  woodland 
thickets  of  a  long  ago.  The  rose  un- 
fortunately does  not  well  in  this  par- 
ticular soil  and  environment,  but  we 
have  a  small  success  with  baby  ram- 
blers and  sweet,  tall  Dorothy  Perkins. 
We  of  course  depend  upon  the 
annuals  mainly  for  the  cut  flowers, 
which  Billy  loves  to  see  in  every  nook 
and  corner  of  the  cottage  throughout 
the  summer.  Formerly  I  used  to  spade 
the  beds  and  sow  the  seeds  in  the  open 
about  the  25th  of  April,  and  some 
famous  displays  of  phlox,  petunias, 
zinnias,  marigolds  and  snapdragons 
we  have  had,  but  never  again!  The 
weeding  is  as  back-breaking  a  job  as 
extracting  dandelions  from  the  lawn, 
and  the  waiting  for  the  flowers  seems 
a  waste  of  time.  I  patronize  the  man 
with  a  greenhouse  now,  and  at  some 
added  cost  have  earlier  blooms  and 
fewer  aches. 

[94l 


The  Garden  Gate 


I  have  a  weakness  for  lilies,  and  the 
auratum  and  speciosum  have  given 
us  some  truly  wondrous  flowers.  The 
gladiolus  and  the  tuberose  are  also 
always  given  place.  Likewise  asters, 
salvias  and  cosmos.  A  patch  of  golden 
glow  is  running  a  race  against  a  bed  of 
real  red-stemmed  Kentucky  mint.  I 
don't  know  which  spreads  the  faster 
or  which  finds  greatest  favor  after 
being  picked.  This  thing  I  have  ob- 
served, however,  that  the  two  seem 
to  go  logically  together. 

To  tell  the  truth,  the  little  garden  is 
all  too  small  at  best,  and  is  shaded  too 
by  oaks  which  were  once  even  more 
numerous  than  now.  These  have 
grown  some  since  the  night  that  win- 
dow-shade blew  up,  and  the  axe  has 
been  put  to  the  roots  of  a  few  con- 
demned. I  suppose  I  dislike  as  keenly 
as  any  Druid  of  old  to  see  a  tree  felled. 
I  worship  them,  but  there  is  a  fine  old 
fireplace  in  the  house,  and  when  the 
days  are  cold  or  wet  the  chimney- 
[95] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

breast  becomes  the  altar  upon  which 
something  must  be  sacrificed  to  the 
household  gods.  Our  oaks  are  not 
such  stately  ones  as  you  may  see 
growing  out  of  deeper  soils.  The  black 
ones  are  already  gone,  and  the  gnarled 
limbs  of  a  group  of  burr  oaks  speak 
plainly  of  the  struggle  they  have  had 
with  their  feet  standing  in  a  clay  as 
hard  as  iron. 

Upon  the  plastered  outer  walls  the 
ampelopsis  Veitchii  spreads  its  dainty 
tendrils,  and  now  and  then  yields  up 
the  ghost  unto  our  savage  winters. 
On  the  north  walls  it  will  be  all  right, 
but  a  southern  exposure  encourages  it 
too  late  in  the  autumn,  and  rather  too 
early  in  the  spring,  for  its  own  good. 
On  the  garage  the  unkillable  woodbine 
flourishes  unrestrained.  This  particu- 
lar Virginia  creeper  has  caught  the 
electric  light  wires  in  its  grasp,  and  is 
slowly  but  surely  traveling  across  the 
lawn  upon  a  support  which  apparently 
is  stimulating. 

[96] 


The  Garden  Gate 


All  this  affords  not  only  cover  for 
ourselves  and  buildings  from  the  outer 
world,  but  here  too  the  native  song 
birds  love  to  come  and  build  their 
nests  and  rear  their  families.  I  know 
them  well,  and  we  get  on  famously 
together  —  making  common  enemy  of 
course  of  that  "rat  of  the  air,"  the 
English  sparrow. 

My  daily  pathway  takes  me  through 
the  grove,  and  here  is  God's  own  gar- 
den; wood  violets  and  arbutus,  sorrel 
and  "shooting  stars,"  crow's-foot  and 
spiderworts  of  royal  hue.  Here,  too, 
May  apples  and  wild  strawberries 
bloom;  and  amidst  it  all  the  bluegrass 
encroacheth  ever  as  the  underbrush  is 
cleared  and  the  oaks  depart. 


CHAPTER  IX 

The  Tragedy  of  the  Flying  Squirrels 

There  has  always  been  something 
more  or  less  pathetic  to  me  in  the  pass- 
ing of  big  black  oaks.  They  do  not 
belong  to  a  long-lived  family.  A  fine 
specimen  once  stood  down  near  the 
foot-bridge  just  below  the  dam,  and 
when  I  first  knew  it  old  age  was  slowly 
but  surely  creeping  over  it.  The  once 
handsome,  wide-spreading  top  was  no 
longer  proudly  carried  nor  symmetri- 
cal. Dead  branches  announced  impend- 
ing dissolution.  Forest  sclerosis  had 
clearly  set  in.  It  was  hollow,  too,  at 
the  base,  and  many  a  hard-pressed  little 
creature  of  the  wild  had  here  found 
safe  sanctuary  from  hot  pursuit.  It 
was  in  this  aging  monarch  of  the  grove 
that  I  first  saw  the  happy  pair  of  which 
[99l 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 


I  write,  and  I  deal  with  fact  through- 
out, not  fiction. 

It  was  during  those  first  alluring  days 
of  mystery  when,  answering  the  call 
of  the  south  wind  and  the  April 
showers,  the  violets  had  forced  their 
way  through  the  dead  leaves  and  other 
vegetable  detritus,  the  accumulations 
of  the  winter  in  the  wood,  when  all 
that  brave  company  of  oaks  —  white, 
burr  and  black  —  had  taken  on  those 
infinitely  delicate  grays  and  greens  and 
browns  that  are  the  despair  of  artists, 
and  mark  the  early  stirring  of  the 
blood  in  arboreal  arteries. 

The  flying  squirrel,  so-called  was 
once  a  common  object  in  and  about 
our  mid-west  timber  lands,  but  it  had 
been  many  a  long  year  since  I  had  seen 
one,  and  we  rejoiced  accordingly  at 
a  discovery  which  added  such  a  dis- 
tinct attraction  to  the  leafy  precincts 
through  which  we  walked  daily  to  and 
from  the  cottage.  The  crows,  jays, 
woodpeckers,  cat  birds,  thrushes, 
[lool 


The  Tragedy  of  the  Flying  Squirrels  ' 

robins  and  the  rabbits  were  all  old 
friends  that  never  failed  us,  but  the 
addition  of  these  two  tiny  aviators  of 
the  woods  to  our  regular  summer  col- 
ony was  quite  the  event  of  an  ever 
memorable  season.  Whence  they  came 
nobody  really  knew.  I  dubbed  them 
Hansel  and  Gretel.  Some  mother 
must  of  course  have  sent  the  little 
wanderers  from  some  far  country  into 
this  remnant  of  a  once  extensive  forest, 
and  here  they  were  seeking,  like  the 
children  of  the  old-time  fairy  tale, 
nuts,  berries  and  adventure.  Here, 
too,  like  the  babes  which  the  genius 
of  Humperdinck  has  immortalized  in 
melodious  opera,  they  were  destined 
at  last  to  be  overcome  by  the  spell 
of  an  evil  genius  —  one  vastly  more 
powerful  even  than  that  of  the  fabled 
witch  of  the  Ilsenstein.  Indeed,  they 
fell  into  a  sleep  at  last  from  which  they 
have  not  yet  awakened. 

They  seemed  to  have  no  fixed  habita- 
tion   as    the    season    progressed,    but 
[101] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 


leaped  from  oak  to  oak  and  frolicked 
in  the  foliage  with  that  joyous  abandon 
that  knows  no  fear  and  has  no  care. 
The  steel  of  fate  had  yet  to  be  experi- 
enced. Great  is  youth  and  hope  and 
innocence!  Pure  and  undefiled  the 
happiness  that  has  yet  to  face  the 
future. 

Shelley's  "Ode  to  the  Skylark"  is 
the  loftiest  of  all  hymns  to  the  out- 
of-doors.  It  exalts  the  sympathetic 
spirit  to  the  "blue  deep's"  most  im- 
measurable heights.  I  often  fancied  as 
I  watched  the  mad  antics  of  the  flying 
squirrel  that  he,  too,  was  in  reality 

Like-  a  disbodied  joy, 
Whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  audacity  of  this  pair  was  some- 
thing appalling  to  one  unfamiliar  with 
their  inherited  accomplishments.  It 
was  always  a  question  as  to  which  could 
jump  and  soar  the  farther,  and  they 
preferred  ever  the  leaps  from  the  top- 
most branches  of  the  tallest  trees,  the 

fl02l 


The  Tragedy  of  the  Flying  Squirrels 

passages  attended  by  the  greatest 
apparent  risk,  with  fine  contempt  for 
the  distance  to  be  traversed.  Sure- 
footed and  swift  as  an  arrow  from  the 
cord,  they  shot  back  and  forth  from 
one  leafy  canopy  to  another.  And  so 
the  golden  summer  passed. 

I  think  they  came  to  know  me  at 
last  quite  as  intimately  as  I  knew  them. 
To  my  way  of  thinking  all  created 
things  are  more  or  less  akin  anyhow. 
The  lives  of  all  certainly  present  too 
many  parallels  to  admit  of  any  other 
hypothesis  as  to  the  universal  fellow- 
ship. To  be  sure  we  count  ourselves 
the  ruling  race.  If  might  makes  divine 
right  then  we  surely  read  clear  our 
title  to  domination,  but  in  our  appe- 
tites and  habits,  our  ambitions  and 
anxieties,  I  have  seen  as  yet  little 
difference  in  any  fundamental  as  be- 
tween the  different  forms  of  animate 
existence.  Man  hungers  and  feeds 
himself  like  any  beast  of  the  field.  He 
has  thirst  which  he  quenches  as  does 
[103] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 


the  bird  at  the  brim  of  the  brook  — 
although  not  always  with  the  same 
good  judgment.  That  which  dear  old 
Montaigne  sets  down  as  the  greatest 
of  all  human  pleasures  is  duplicated 
all  day  long  in  the  billing  and  cooing 
to  be  seen  in  any  dove-cote.  All 
mothers  have  the  same  instinctive 
love  for  their  young,  and  the  little  life 
of  all  alike  is  " rounded  by  a  sleep." 
Beyond  this  we  know  naught.  To 
be  sure  we  humans  have  our  faith  in 
the  life  beyond.  So  has  "Bob  White" 
down  there  in  that  lower  field,  also, 
for  aught  I  know. 

Well,  anyhow,  we  grew  to  be  good 
friends.  Just  why  they  came,  as  fall 
approached,  to  seek  winter  quarters 
in  the  lawn  at  Dumbiedykes  we  shall 
never  know.  Possibly  they  recog- 
nized me  as  a  brother.  I  do  not  know. 
If  by  any  form  of  telepathy  they  could 
read  my  thoughts  and  sound  my  feel- 
ings toward  them,  I  am  sure  that  they 
would  have  known  that  they  would 
[  104! 


The  Tragedy  of  the  Flying  Squirrels 

indeed  be  welcome  to  occupy  an  apart- 
ment that  we  had  always  in  offer  for 
furred  and  feathered  folk  in  a  scraggy 
burr  oak  tree  that  stands  not  twenty 
feet  from  my  bedroom  window. 

I  fancy  that  the  original  architects 
of  this  apartment,  which  had  been 
beautifully  worked  out,  were  some  of 
the  woodpecker  people.  It  was  there 
when  we  acquired  the  place,  and  is 
there  yet,  and  it  has  had  many  tenants 
in  its  time.  The  flickers,  yellow  ham- 
mers or  golden  woodpeckers,  by  which- 
ever term  you  may  please  to  call  them, 
hatch  out  a  noisy  brood  there  every 
spring.  However,  when  the  first  heavy 
frosts  set  the  acorns  clattering  to  the 
ground,  Hansel  and  Gretel  came  along, 
looked  over  this  vacant  flat,  and  liked 
it.  At  any  rate,  they  took  it,  and 
moved  in,  although  not  without 
strenuous  opposition  from  a  somewhat 
surprising  and,  I  apprehend,  quite 
unexpected  quarter.  It  was  by  the 
merest  chance  that  I  happened  to  wit- 
[105] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

ness  a  pitched  battle  between  a  husky 
and  decidedly  belligerent  redheaded 
woodpecker  and  poor  little  Hansel. 
From  the  cottage  window  opposite  I 
watched  the  fight.  Just  what  object 
Mr.  Woodpecker  had  in  trying  to 
serve  a  writ  of  ejectment  upon  the 
flying  squirrel,  I  am  sure  I  cannot  tell. 
He  did  not  own  the  place,  and  to  my 
certain  knowledge  had  never  even 
asserted  a  claim  to  it.  No  redhead  had 
nested  there  in  all  the  years  that  I  had 
possessed  the  property.  I  can  only 
attribute  his  antipathy  to  the  squirrel 
to  the  fact  that  probably  some  ances- 
tral redhead  had  at  no  slight  cost  of 
time  and  labor  made  the  original 
excavation  and  this  loyal  descendant 
was  moved  by  some  inherited  instinct 
to  protect  its  desecration  in  his  eyes 
by  a  member  of  the  ancient  and  not 
always  respected  family  of  rodents. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  he  undertook  to 
storm  the  works,  and  much  to  my  per- 
sonal satisfaction  was  at  length  obliged 
[106] 


The  Tragedy  of  the  Flying  Squirrels 

to  retire  discomfited.  The  valiant 
fighter  in  the  trench  had  made  a  suc- 
cessful defense. 

This  I  am  sure  was  the  flying  squir- 
rel's first  real  rough  experience.  What 
to  us  appeared  a  most  amusing  per- 
formance was  to  this  dainty  creature 
a  real  fight  for  life.  With  his  back 
to  the  wall,  his  head  was  just  visible 
in  the  aperture  in  the  tree.  Mr.  Red- 
head, clinging  to  the  rough  bark  just 
outside,  went  after  the  intruder  with 
all  the  force  that  these  marvelous  little 
winged  carpenters  put  into  their  telling 
blows.  I  fancy  the  squirrel  was  quick 
enough  to  dodge  these  attacks.  He 
could  not  have  withstood  even  one  of 
those  vicious  jabs  with  that  terrible 
beak,  and  the  brave  little  fellow  not 
only  stood  his  ground  inviting  this 
punishment,  but  actually  assumed  the 
aggressive  at  times.  He  was  evidently 
a  finished  boxer,  for  he  led  first  with 
his  left  and  next  with  his  right  with 
such  swiftness  of  attack  that  he  must 
[107] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 


have  landed  frequently  on  the  wood- 
pecker's face.  Those  needle  points 
on  the  ends  of  his  tiny  paws  were 
admirably  calculated  to  scratch  out  an 
adversary's  eyes.  And  so,  after  as 
pretty  and  as  lively  and  as  strange  a 
set-to  as  I  have  ever  witnessed,  the 
bird  gave  up  trying  to  force  this  Dar- 
danelles, and  winged  his  way  back 
into  the  depths  of  the  wood  whence  he 
came,  leaving  the  flying  squirrels  mas- 
ters of  what  was  to  be  their  winter 
home.  And  here  we  bade  them  fare- 
well when  we  closed  the  cottage  and 
returned  to  our  quarters  in  the  city. 

Longfellow's  description  of  the  "cold 
and  cruel  winter"  fits  well  the  condi- 
tions that  now  overtook  the  last  of  the 
race  of  flying  squirrels  in  Midlothian 
wood.  Heavy  snow  and  ice  coated  all 
the  countryside,  the  mercury  sank  to 
almost  unprecedented  depths  and  it 
seemed  as  if  the  sun  would  never  again 
return  to  release  the  northern  earth 
from  the  iron  in  which  it  was  bound. 
[108] 


The  Tragedy  of  the  Flying  Squirrels 

But  at  last  one  day,  after  many  weary 
weeks,  a  breath  of  spring  was  wafted 
from  the  Gulf,  and  the  frost's  relent- 
less grip  relaxed.  The  melting  ice 
began  its  long  journey  to  the  distant 
sea,  and  we  went  out  to  make  our  cus- 
tomary preliminary  survey  of  the  prem- 
ises to  see  how  everything  had  endured 
the  strain  put  upon  vacant  property 
by  the  rigors  of  a  winter  of  almost 
unparalleled  severity. 

The  cottage  is  carefully  boarded  up 
each  autumn,  and  upon  our  arrival  this 
particular  day  in  March  we  found 
everything  apparently  just  as  we  had 
left  it.  Inside  all  was  cold  and  dark. 
There  had  been  no  heat  in  the  place  of 
course  for  more  than  three  months, 
and  the  storm-doors  and  windows  kept 
out  every  ray  of  light;  so  we  perforce 
inspected  the  place  with  the  aid  of 
candles.  In  accordance  with  our  usual 
practice,  the  large  rug  in  the  living- 
room  had  been  rolled  up  and  shunted 
to  one  side.  We  had  found  in  previ- 
[109] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 


ous  years  that  little  Mistress  Mousie 
sometimes  builded  nests  for  herself 
and  family  in  upholstered  furnishings 
or  other  places  that  promised  to  be 
"comfy, "  from  a  mouse's  point  of  view, 
and  so  we  unrolled  the  rug  that  was 
to  reveal  a  tragedy.  Stark  and  stiff 
in  death  inside  this  roll  we  found  the 
poor  emaciated  little  body  of  one  of 
the  flying  squirrels  —  starved  and 
frozen  in  a  desperate  attempt  at  self- 
preservation  in  the  face  of  impossible 
conditions;  and  a  half-hour  later  on 
the  lawn,  outside,  underneath  the  very 
tree  that  had  been  so  courageously 
defended  in  October,  we  found  that 
the  melting  snows  had  uncovered  the 
body  of  the  mate! 

How  the  final  separation  had  oc- 
curred, how  one  had  found  its  way  in 
its  dire  extremity  inside  the  house  and 
far  into  the  folds  of  the  rug,  are  ques- 
tions not  to  be  answered  this  side  of 
flying-squirrel  paradise  —  if  there  be 
such  a  place. 

[no] 


The  Tragedy  of  the  Flying  Squirrels 

The  bodies  were  buried  in  the  garden 
where  witch-hazel  branches  overhang 
their  grave,  for  they  were  not  separated 
at  the  last;  and,  as  head-gardener  at 
Dumbiedykes,  I  can  testify  to  this 
one  fact  that,  although  this  all  hap- 
pened many  years  ago,  wild  violets 
have  ever  since  sprung  perennially 
from  the  ground  wherein  they  sleep. 


CHAPTER  X 

Toilers  and  Idlers  of  the  Shining  Hours 

I  profess  no  special  knowledge  of 
entomology,  but  at  different  times  I 
have  become  for  short  periods  inti- 
mately acquainted  with  certain  individ- 
ual specimens  of  the  insect  world.  A 
honey  bee  which  I  inadvertently  picked 
up  from  off  a  white  clover  blossom  on 
the  links  one  day  in  August  certainly 
gave  me  a  live  enough  time,  for  the 
few  moments  that  he  lasted.  But  I 
finally  got  him  just  below  my  knee. 
That  was  not  half  so  "spooky,"  how- 
ever, as  the  incident  over  on  the 
thirteenth  hole  where  after  a  heavy 
rain,  while  the  surface  water  still 
soaked  the  fair  green,  an  ill-fated  and 
good-intentioned  frog  leaped  into  trou- 
ble up  a  player's  trouser  leg.  The 
[113] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

reader  will  of  course  not  infer  from 
this  that  I  am  classing  batrachians  as 
insects.  Far  be  it  from  me  thus  to 
insult  the  vastly  more  intellectual  bug 
creation. 

Speaking  of  bees,  one  day  last  sum- 
mer a  swarm  from  off  some  neighboring 
farm  settled  down  at  Dumbiedykes, 
and,  without  as  much  as  saying,  "By 
your  leave,"  took  possession  of  that 
now  famous  hole  in  the  burr  oak  tree, 
where  so  many  birds  and  the  fated 
flying-squirrels  had  preceded  them. 
A  brood  of  golden  woodpeckers  had 
hatched  and  gone.  Of  that  I  was 
sincerely  glad.  They  were  a  noisy 
generation,  and  the  chattering  of  the 
youngsters  while  the  mother  sought 
to  still  their  throats  and  stuff  their 
stomachs  at  last  got  somewhat  on  our 
nerves. 

The  bees,  however,  are  ideal  neigh- 
bors. I  always  did  get  on  well  with 
bees.  My  father  was  an  enthusiastic 
beeman  when  I  was  a  lad  at  home,  and 
[114] 


Toilers  and  Idlers  of  the  Shining  Hours 

at  the  risk  of  raising  questions  as  to  my 
dear  old  mother's  reputation  for  ve- 
racity I  will  here  put  on  record  the  quite 
unbelievable  statement  which  I  have 
often  heard  her  make:  that  as  a  tiny 
urchin  I  had  one  certain  summer  day 
seated  myself  in  front  of  the  hives, 
where  the  bees  had  gathered  thickly 
on  the  outside  of  their  box  to  escape 
the  heat,  and  played  with  handfuls  of 
them  without  being  stung.  .  I  have 
been  since,  however,  not  always  by 
honey  bees. 

And  so  we  really  gave  the  wild  bees 
welcome  as  they  entered  in  the  oak, 
and  throughout  the  long  midsummer 
days  and  well  into  the  autumn  the 
busy  droning  of  these  thrifty  little 
workmen  added  a  new  element  of 
charm  to  our  surroundings.  And  as 
they  gathered  from  the  fields  and 
flowers  their  winter  store  of  sweets, 
their  hapless  brethren  of  the  idle  class  — 
grasshoppers,  crickets  and  the  rest 
—  were  squandering  the  shining  hours 

[115] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

with  not  a  thought  of  coming  trouble 
in  their  tiny  brains. 

Most  people  despise  spiders.  I  do 
not  know  whether  they  are  more  bril- 
liant in  achievement  than  the  ant  or 
not,  but  their  handiwork  is  surely  more 
spectacular.  There  is  a  beautiful  big, 
black  velvet  fellow,  for  instance,  with 
yellow  plush  trimmings,  that  spreads 
a  net  upon  the  barberry  every  summer 
that  is  certainly  a  geometric  gem. 
They  say  he  is  poisonous.  Well,  I 
have  no  doubt  he  has  been  endowed, 
like  the  rest  of  us,  by  Nature  with 
some  means  of  providing  himself  with 
food.  The  manner  of  his  operation 
is  not  his  fault,  any  more  than  is  that 
of  the  robin  going  into  the  earth  with 
a  well-sharpened  beak  for  his  legitimate 
prize  of  war. 

The  month  of  August  finds  the 
insect  tide  at  its  very  height,  and  when 
about  the  evening  of  the  fifteenth  day 
arrives  we  listen  for  the  first  fiddling 
of  a  katydid.  You  will  always  hear 
[116] 


Toilers  and  Idlers  of  the  Shining  Hours 

them  before  you  see  them.  Many 
who  have  heard  them  always  have 
never  yet  seen  one.  They  are  quietly 
feeding  or  sleeping  during  the  daylight 
hours,  and  their  pale  green  garment 
conceals  them  perfectly  as  they  lounge 
or  lunch  upon  the  foliage.  The  first 
night  there  is  commonly  but  one  Katy 
with  leg-development  sufficient  to  en- 
able her  to  begin  operations.  The  sec- 
ond evening  there  will  be  an  answering 
call,  and  about  the  third  night  the 
trees  and  shrubbery  will  be  vibrant 
with  the  music  of  these  curious  har- 
bingers of  fall.  It  is  now  "six  weeks 
to  frost,"  so  the  old  saying  goes. 

A  colony  of  wasps  were  unwise 
enough  to  build  one  summer  in  a  fold 
of  an  awning  that  had  not  been  down 
for  weeks,  and  when  the  rope  was 
finally  slacked  and  the  poor  creatures 
precipitated  nest  and  all  to  the  ground 
below,  there  was  tall  hustling  on  the 
part  of  the  innocent  wrecker  of  their 
home.  They  were  simply  inconsol- 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

able,  and  literally  hung  around  the 
place  of  their  discomfiture  for  days, 
evidently  in  the  hope  that  in  some 
way  unknown  to  waspish  intellects 
their  fragile  ruined  domicile  might  be 
restored;  this,  too,  in  the  face  of 
every  effort  to  dislodge  them  with  the 
garden  hose  and  other  discourage- 
ments. They  were  finally  dispersed, 
however,  by  a  resort  to  the  fumes 
of  gasoline;  so  the  Germans  were  not 
the  first  to  introduce  a  modern  form 
of  warfare. 

I  love  the  lazy,  awkward  bumble 
bee.  He  is  not  so  nervous  and  pep- 
pery as  his  smaller  brother  in  the  same 
line  of  business.  He  nests  in  the 
ground  —  hence  his  name  "humble," 
I  suppose.  He  "bumbles"  around  so 
deliberately,  pays  so  little  regard  to 
other  people,  attends  so  well  to  his 
own  affairs,  and  puts  up  such  a  supe- 
rior brand  of  honey,  that  he  is  alto- 
gether one  of  the  desirable  citizens  of 
the  entomological  world.  He  does  not 
[n8] 


Toilers  and  Idlers  of  the  Shining  Hours 

lay  up  his  stock  in  such  shape  as  to 
tempt  the  cupidity  of  men,  but  farm 
boys  know  that  the  bag  of  honey  he 
carries  home  is  the  very  essence  of  the 
choicest  flowers.  We  used  to  catch 
and  kill  them  just  to  rob  them  of  the 
hard-earned  fruits  of  their  innocent 
labors.  Why  do  boys  have  the  killing 
lust  so  highly  developed,  anyhow? 

Down  in  Congress  the  other  day,  in 
the  course  of  a  rather  rancorous  debate, 
one  member,  an  old  hand  at  the 
business,  said  that  his  opponent  — 
a  new  member  of  the  House  —  re- 
minded him  of  a  "bumble  bee"  that 
is  "always  biggest  when  first  hatched." 
I  do  not  know  whether  that  old  guards- 
man was  up  on  the  natural  history  of 
the  bee  or  not.  I  have  not  cared  to 
fumble  with  their  nests  myself,  so  I 
can  neither  affirm  nor  deny  this  state- 
ment in  reference  to  the  early  life  of 
baby  bumble. 

Everybody  loves  a  cricket.  I  can- 
not say  much  for  his  gait,  or  that  of 

[119] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

his  friend  the  grasshopper.  You  never 
know  just  what  the  next  move  is 
going  to  be.  I  certainly  do  not  envy 
these  ephemeral  creatures  their  mode 
of  locomotion.  To  be  compelled  to 
wind  yourself  up,  spring  the  traps  that 
unloose  your  various  legs,  find  yourself 
projected  aimlessly  somewhere  into 
space,  and  fall  all  over  yourself  in  the 
landing  may  seem  to  them  a  pleasant 
enough  way  of  going  through  life,  but 
the  movement  seems  to  need  what  a 
dancing  teacher  might  call  "smoothing 
out." 

There  is  something  most  pathetic 
about  the  last  days  of  the  cricket. 
In  some  way  the  grasshoppers  and  the 
katydids  take  their  leave  so  quietly 
and  so  privately  that  you  know  little 
or  nothing  of  their  final  exits.  But 
the  cheery  chirping  cricket  does  not 
make  so  graceful  a  goodbye.  The 
first  frosts  dull  the  edge  of  his  music, 
and  give  him  rheumatism.  He  be- 
comes a  wandering  wreck  along  the 
[120] 


Toilers  and  Idlers  of  the  Shining  Hours 

sidewalks  or  in  the  grass  alongside, 
and  his  last  effort  at  being  cheerful  is 
such  a  pitiful  little  squeak  that  you 
want  to  take  him  in  by  the  fire  and 
thaw  him  out,  especially  since  he  has 
been  such  a  welcome  visitor  around  the 
hearth  when  in  better  form. 

And,  alas!  These  are  not  the  only 
fragile  folk  in  this  heartless  old  world 
of  ours  to  lose  friends  and  admirers 
after  looks  and  voice  have  gone. 


CHAPTER  XI 

The  Rain  Upon  the  Roof 

It  was  now  late  in  August.  For 
weeks  there  had  been  practically  no 
relief  from  the  burning  drouth.  Day 
after  day  the  sun  had  set  in  copper  only 
to  rise  again  in  brass.  The  bluegrass 
looked  as  if  dead  beyond  recall.  The 
leaves  were  turning  brown,  and  falling 
rapidly.  Now  and  then  cloud-banks 
would  appear  in  the  distance,  and  an 
occasional  flash  and  distant  thunder- 
peal seemed  to  signal  the  beginning  of 
the  end,  but  the  promise  would  fail 
to  be  fulfilled,  and  the  suffering  was  all 
the  greater  because  of  the  hope  that 
died. 

At  length,  however,  when  the  thirsty 
earth  was  in  despair,  one  evening 
there  was  scattered  all  along  the  west- 
[123] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 


ern  horizon  a  gorgeous  panorama  of 
sea  and  shore  and  sky  and  distant 
mountain  heights,  with  great  prom- 
ontories projecting  into  misty  gulfs. 
In  the  offing  mystic  purple  islands 
floated  in  a  golden  ocean.  For  a  time 
it  seemed  impossible  to  distinguish  the 
line  of  demarcation  between  the  main- 
land of  the  earth  and  the  vapory 
shadows  stretching  out  and  up  through 
apparently  immeasurable  seaward  dis- 
tances. And  that  night  came  the 
change:  first  the  fiery  vanguard  of  a 
heavy  storm;  then  the  settling  of  a 
steady  all-day,  all-night  rain — the  kind 
that  makes  this  great  globe  of  ours 
inhabitable.  Have  you  ever  known 
the  comfort  of  watching  or  listening 
throughout  long  hours  to  this  blessed 
streaming  of  the  skies  upon  parched 
fields,  dust-laden  foliage  and  shingle 
roofs  ?  If  not,  then  we  have  found  an- 
other thing  denied  to  you  poor  city  folk. 
On  those  rare  days  when  a  long, 
late-summer  drouth  is  at  last  being 
[124! 


The  Rain  Upon  the  Roof 


thus  effectually  broken,  if  you  are  a 
boy,  old  or  young,  and  living  on  a  farm, 
you  may  get  a  lot  of  satisfaction  out  of 
contemplation  of  the  great  miracle 
being  wrought  if  you  will  seek  with  the 
live  stock  the  shelter  of  the  barn.  In 
there  somehow  you  seem  to  be  closer 
to  the  heart  of  the  things  most  vitally 
affected.  You  know  that  all  animal 
and  vegetable  life  has  been  suffering 
tortures  from  the  intolerable  heat. 
Birds  and  beasts,  fields  and  forests 
alike  have  felt  the  strain  far  more  than 
we  humans  with  our  various  artificial 
devices  for  ameliorating  our  own  situa- 
tion during  such  a  period.  But  what 
of  those  galled  and  sweating  teams, 
those  thriftless  cattle  in  bare  pastures 
seeking  the  shelter  of  some  friendly 
tree,  and  fighting  the  tormenting  flies 
that  permit  no  peace  by  day  or  night? 
What  of  the  poultry  with  uplifted  wings 
almost  too  tired  and  hot  in  their 
feather  coats  to  forage  for  their  slack- 
ening food?  What  of  that  once-fine 
[125] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 


field  of  corn  that  gave  such  promise 
at  the  last  full  moon  —  now  "fired" 
and  on  the  brink  of  ruin?  What  of 
the  curling  leaves  on  elm  and  maple? 

I  have  indeed  vivid  recollections  of 
a  hayloft  in  an  old  red  barn  from  the 
door  of  which  we  used  to  watch  this 
great  event  of  the  final  coming  of  the 
heavy  rain,  and  I  can  hear  still  the 
comforting  monotony  of  that  steady 
patter  on  the  roof  bringing  life  and 
hope  renewed  into  a  languishing  world. 
You  farm-bred  fold  know  full  well,  as 
you  watch  the  slow  discharging  of  the 
thick  gray  clouds,  the  astounding  trans- 
formation now  at  hand. 

At  Dumbiedykes,  alas,  there  is  now 
no  barn  —  only  a  garage.  And  who 
could  stand  or  sit  for  hours  in  an  auto- 
mobile stable  and  welcome  with  grate- 
ful heart  a  two-days  rain?  Nobody, 
of  course.  There  are  no  friendly  eyes 
or  ears  or  muzzles  in  the  stalls  to  keep 
you  company.  There  is  no  hay  over- 
head. No  feed-bins,  straw  or  meal- 
[126] 


The  Rain  Upon  the  Roof 


tubs.  Just  your  trusty  motor,  and 
when  it  is  not  going  it  speaks  to  you  not 
at  all.  True,  purring  down  the  long 
road  it  has  a  voice  of  which  you  may 
get  very  fond.  Besides  it  minds  not 
drouths,  nor  heat,  nor  cold,  if  you  are 
as  good  to  it  as  to  your  horse.  And 
yet  a  garage  can  never  be  a  sure- 
enough  old  barn,  filled  with  the  tenants 
and  the  products  of  the  fields. 

Once  we  kept  ponies  where  the  big 
machine  now  stands,  but  they,  like 
their  little  mistress,  have  gone  now  far 
away.  A  Shetland  of  uncommon  qual- 
ity and  wisdom  was  the  one  particular 
pet  in  those  days;  in  fact  a  frequent 
caller  inside  the  cottage  proper,  until 
once  upon  a  time  he  got  his  pudgy 
stomach  wedged  in  between  two  closet 
walls,  whereupon  we  had  something 
of  a  time  extricating  him  from  a  real 
predicament. 

The  cottage  porch  is  well  protected 
from  both  wind  and  rain.  Here  there- 
fore let  us  sit  and  watch  the  dry  earth 
[127] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 


drink,  and  listen  to  the  gurgling  of  the 
water  in  the  spouts,  or  the  dripping 
from  the  eaves.  And  if  it  grows  too 
damp  at  last,  there  always  waits  inside 
a  certain  friend  —  the  back-log.  And 
when  the  day  is  done,  and  the  scorched 
earth  is  still  demanding  more,  yet 
more,  there  is  still  the  comfort  of  that 
pillow  as  the  rain  pours  on  unceasingly 
through  the  blackness  of  the  night! 
You  are  so  snug  and  dry  and  satisfied. 
The  wind  is  rising  now.  It  shakes  a 
cataract  upon  the  roof  from  off  the 
overhanging  branches,  and  while  you 
are  on  your  way  to  dreamland  its  deep 
retreating  roar  through  the  weeping, 
bending  oaks  seems  an  echo  of  a  heavy 
surf  upon  a  stormbeat  shore. 

And  the  fresh  beauty  of  a  world  re- 
newed that  greets  the  morning  sun! 
Who  shall  paint  it? 


[128] 


CHAPTER  XII 

Fireside  Fancies 

With  the  first  advance  of  the  autumn 
we  begin  to  lay  the  open  fire.  In 
fact,  so  fond  we  are  of  the  blazing  logs 
upon  the  big  brick  hearth  that  we  take 
advantage  of  the  slightest  drop  of  the 
mercury  in  the  thermometer  all  season 
through  to  gather  round  the  chimney- 
breast,  and  set  the  flames  a-dancing; 
and  if  the  day  be  wet  as  well  as  cool 
outside  we  have  little  trouble  in  making 
ourselves  believe  that  after  all  life 
is  not  altogether  dependent  upon  per- 
petual sunshine,  even  though  clear 
skies  and  balmy  airs  are  usually  deemed 
essential  to  the  enjoyment  of  the 
country. 

It  is  astonishing  how  few  there  are 
in  these  degenerate  days  who  know 
[  129! 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

how  to  lay  the  foundations  for  a  suc- 
cessful fire.  Your  modern  servant 
knows  nothing  whatever  about  back- 
logs and  their  proper  placing.  The 
wood  is  just  thrown  in  regardless  quite 
of  relative  sizes  and  positions,  and  the 
kindling  as  apt  as  not  will  be  on  top. 
The  prime  object  of  .the  open  fire  is 
good  cheer  and  stimulation.  Improp- 
erly begun  is  never  rightly  finished. 
The  fire  hesitates,  struggles,  never 
really  gets  a-going,  and  soon  its  obvious 
discouragement  reflects  depression  in 
the  room.  The  open  fire  must  be  free 
and  active.  Of  course  there  is  nothing 
like  good,  sound,  dry  hickory  or  drift- 
wood to  give  it  zest,  but  these  are 
growing  as  scarce  these  days  as  terra- 
pin, and  often  time  we  find  ourselves 
trying  to  make  believe  we  are  satisfied 
with  some  half-decayed  old  stuff,  jollied 
along  at  frequent  intervals  with  pine 
slabs  or  the  debris  of  crates  and  boxes 
from  divers  sources.  However,  any 
kind  of  glow  is  better  than  no  fire  when 
[130] 


Fireside  Fancies 


the  world  is  hung  with  black  without, 
and  winds  are  high  and  searching. 

Byron  says  "'tis  sweet  to  hear  the 
watch  dog's  honest  bark  bay  deep- 
mouthed  welcome  as  we  draw  near 
home,"  but  if  the  day  be  cold  and  the 
frosty  air  is  nipping  keenly  at  your  ears 
and  ringer  tips,  show  me  the  blue  smoke 
rising  freely  from  the  chimney  top.  I 
know  what  waits  within,  and  when 
the  dressing-gown  and  slippers  and  the 
rocker  are  in  place  the  world  may 
hang;  I  care  not.  For  are  not  my  old 
friends  there  upon  the  shelves,  the  old 
gray  cat  with  folded  paws  asleep  there 
by  the  fire,  and  Billy  knitting? 

For  me  old  friends,  old  books,  old 
vintages,  if  I  may.  And  yet  an  old 
friend  may  be  found  among  people  you 
have  but  recently  discovered.  Real 
friends  are  born,  not  made,  and  when 
you  meet  you  know  without  very 
much  ado  that  you  were  intended  for 
friends  from  the  very  beginning.  You 
have  had  similar  thoughts,  similar 
[131] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 


tastes,  similar  aspirations,  since  you 
were  both  started  on  your  journey,  and 
the  joys  of  a  congenial  companionship 
that  only  needed  contact  for  fruition 
are  not  long  in  springing  into  flower. 
It  is  as  if  you  had  always  walked  to- 
gether. The  only  trouble  is  that  in  a 
lifetime  you  do  not  meet  many  of  those 
with  whom  close  friendship  would  be 
possible.  There  is  such  a  labyrinth 
of  highways  and  byways  to  be  trav- 
ersed that  it  seems  commonly  an 
accident  if  a  real  friend  happens  actu- 
ally to  cross  over  into  your  own  life- 
line and  closely  parallels  your  course. 
Fortunate  indeed  are  those  thus  thrown 
together  by  the  fates  charged  with  the 
handling  of  our  great  affairs. 

There  is  of  course  a  great  difference 
in  people  in  respect  to  this  matter. 
Some  are  quite  satisfied  with  the  froth 
of  commonplace  acquaintanceship.  If 
the  veneer  of  the  merely  conventional 
happens  to  match  their  own  they  may 
live  content  in  a  world  that  seems  to 


Fireside  Fancies 


their  shallow  natures  filled  with  most 
congenial  people;  but  those  in  whom 
the  currents  that  touch  the  nobler 
things  of  life  run  deep  and  high  have 
not  often  the  great  good  fortune  to 
join  themselves  in  spirit  with  more  than 
one  or  two  real  friends.  We  all  know 
plenty  of  people,  but  how  many  come 
into  our  lives  with  whom  a  perfect  mu- 
tual understanding  is  possible?  The 
rarity  of  such  companionships  in  actual 
life  explains  and  emphasizes  the  price- 
less value  of  the  literature  of  the  ages. 
Here  at  least  we  may  turn  and  be  sure 
of  finding  thoughts  and  sentiments 
that  confirm  our  own  experiences,  or 
give  expression  to  our  own  ideals. 

I  pity  the  man  or  woman  who  is  only 
happy  and  content  where  the  band 
is  playing.  Possibly  this  is  sympathy 
quite  wasted.  Possibly  those  who  find 
all  they  require  in  life  at  the  "movies" 
or  in  the  whirl  of  the  town  have  the 
rational  view,  but  there  are  some  who 
do  not  court  constant  touch  with  the 
[i33l 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

passing  rush  and  roar.  There  are 
some  who  have  certain  resources  within 
themselves.  There  are  people  who 
could  spend  a  blustery  week  by  an 
open  fire  with  only  a  good  book  or  a 
friend  —  I  use  the  word  in  its  highest 
interpretation  —  and  not  be  miserable. 
I  have  known  folk  who,  if  need  be, 
would  find  no  hardship  whatsoever  in 
passing  a  winter  alone  in  Terra  del 
Fuego  —  that  is,  if  before  being  thus 
marooned  they  might  be  provided, 
say  with  Shakespeare  and  Marcus 
Aurelius.  If  I  were  to  be  thus  iso- 
lated, however,  for  any  reason  from 
so-called  civilization,  I  should  wish 
to  extend  the  list  to  take  in  first  ol  all 
the  Scriptures.  I  must  say  I  do  not 
know  which  fascinates  me  most,  the 
flowery  imagery  of  the  Prophets  or  the 
moral  beauty  of  the  Sermon  on  the 
Mount.  Then,  again  —  queer  con- 
ceit, isn't  it?  —  I  think  I  should  ask 
also  for  my  old  Montaigne,  and  if  there 
were  room  in  the  boat  that  was  to  set 
[i34l 


Fireside  Fancies 


me  ashore  I  should  surely  ask  for 
Thoreau's  Walden,  and  copies  of  Vir- 
gil, Horace,  Wordsworth,  "Bobby" 
Burns,  and  our  own  author  of  Evan- 
geline  and  Hiawatha.  Yes,  and  I 
would  not  forget  a  precious  well- 
thumbed  Shelley,  in  which  is  writ- 
ten this  inscription  —  "With  happy 
Christmas  greetings  from  a  friend." 
The  hand  that  wrote  that  line  in  the 
long  ago  could  not  direct  the  pen  with 
such  copper-plate  exactness  now,  I 
fancy,  but  the  skylark  ode  is  there, 
the  immortal  "Hymn  to  Pan,"  and 
the  "Song  of  the  Faded  Violet." 

How  fierce  and  all-consuming  are 
those  first  newly-kindled  flames  upon 
the  hearth!  Their  primal  inspiration 
may  be  nothing  more  substantial  or 
enduring  than  pine  and  paper  and  a 
tiny  match,  but  how  they  leap  and 
blaze  and  set  the  flickering  shadows 
dancing!  In  all  this  world  there  is 
nothing  so  joyously  contagious.  All 
the  world  loves  to  watch  the  merry 

1 135 1 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

playing  of  these  first  pure  spirits  of  the 
fire,  and  as  they  gradually  become 
quiescent  spectral  pictures  pass. 

A  schoolboy  with  his  freshman 
German.  The  lesson  Schiller's  im- 
pressive poem,  "Das  Lied  von  der 
Glocke" — the  old  church  bell's  story 
of  human  life  from  the  christening  to 
the  grave,  as  seen  through  centuries 
from  the  belfry  tower.  A  boy  is 
called  upon  to  read  and  translate.  His 
lines  conclude: 

O!  Dass  sie  ewig  griinen  bliebe, 
Die  schone  Zeit  der  jungen  Liebe! 

And  as  the  boy  finishes  and  takes  his 
seat  the  old  professor  seems  to  dream. 
The  boy  had  said:  "A  free  translation 
of  these  lines  might  be 

Would  that  it  might  abide  forever 

The  beauteous  springtime  of  young  love. 

"Yes,  that  may  do,"  says  the  old 
instructor  somewhat  wearily,  "but 
really  there  is  no  such  thing  as  render- 

[136] 


Fireside  Fancies 


ing  completely  in  English  the  full 
beauty  of  the  original."  He  then 
gave  the  literal  interpretation  of  the 
lines,  and  in  his  voice  more  than  one 
of  the  boys  detected  a  trace  of  emotion 
which  they  would  not  have  guessed 
had  place  in  the  old  man's  breast. 

Within  twelve  months  after  this 
little  incident  one  student  had  deserted 
the  college  halls  forever  at  the  call  of 
something  in  the  eyes  of  a  maiden  fair. 
She  sits  there  now  with  him,  after  the 
lapse  of  I  should  not  just  care  to  say 
how  many  years,  by  the  open  fire,  and 
together  they  contemplate  the  slow 
combustion  of  the  logs.  A  great  calm 
has  settled  down  upon  the  hearth  since 
the  pine  and  paper  first  rushed  aloft  in 
smoke.  The  imprisoned  sunshine  of 
summer  days  long  gone  now  finds  a 
glad  release  as  the  friendly  fire  burns 
on  in  steady  moderation.  The  "sap" 
is  seeping  too  from  out  the  ends  of  that 
heart  of  oak  as  the  heat  expands  its 
fibres,  and  an  echo  of  the  beating  of  the 

[i37l 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

early  and  the  later  rains  is  heard  far  in 
the  distant  forest  depths. 

They  say  that  only  mountaineers 
transplanted  from  their  accustomed 
heights  to  wear  out  their  lives  upon  the 
dead  levels  of  the  plain  ever  really  die 
of  Heimweh.  I  am  sitting  later  than 
is  customary  before  the  smouldering 
embers.  The  clock  is  on  the  stroke 
of  twelve.  The  glowing  coals  are 
turning  fast  to  ashes.  Where  in  the 
beginning  there  was  life  and  light  and 
jollity,  now  all  grows  cold  and  gray 
and  cheerless.  Happily,  however,  the 
sweet  oblivion  of  sleep  impends,  and 
soon  the  morning  light  will  break. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

The  Beginnings  of  Tomorrow 

One  born  and  reared  within  the 
tropics,  who  had  spent  several  years  in 
the  North  Atlantic  states  and  Canada, 
once  said  to  me,  "The  two  most  beau- 
tiful sights  in  all  this  world  are  the 
New  England  and  St.  Lawrence  River 
forests  after  the  frost  has  blended  with 
the  vivid  greens  the  brilliant  yellows, 
browns  and  scarlets  of  the  maples, 
and  —  a  snowstorm!" 

It  is  not  difficult  to  understand  this 
viewpoint.  The  eternal  sameness  of 
the  southern  atmosphere  and  land- 
scape must  become  monotonous.  The 
gorgeous  October  coloring  of  our  east- 
ern hills  and  the  wild  exhilaration  of 
the  snowflakes  riding  on  the  winter 
wind  must  strike  one  unfamiliar  with 

[i39] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 


such  scenes  with  all-compelling  force. 
So  let  us  be  thankful  that  we  live  in  a 
latitude  where  Nature  resets  her  stage 
so  frequently  that  we  do  not  tire  of 
one  great  act  before  another  is  upon  us. 
As  winter  drags  on  to  its  close  the 
lure  of  the  vernal  sun  is  well-nigh 
irresistible.  Most  of  those  who  are 
compelled  to  pass  their  days  in  the 
man-built  town  are  then  moved  by 
some  instinct  latent  in  every  human 
breast  to  seek  the  God-built  temples 
of  the  out-of-doors,  but  as  the  spring- 
time leads  us  forward  into  golden 
summer  days  and  deep-fruited  autumn 
follows  on  to  crown  the  harvest  of  the 
year,  the  killing  frosts  cut  down  the 
transient  beauties  of  the  fields  and 
drive  us  back  again  upon  ourselves. 
And  yet  I  never  quite  subscribe  to 
the  poetic  proposition  that  now 

The  melancholy  days  have  come 
The  saddest  of  the  year. 

What  is  there  "melancholy"  about 
complete    fulfillment    of    a    promise? 
[140] 


The  Beginnings  of  Tomorrow 

What  "sad"  about  the  attainment  of 
a  heart's  desire?  The  bud  blossoms, 
spreads  its  petals,  bears  the  precious 
seed  that  insures  its  own  sweet  per- 
petuity, and  goes  its  way  without  re- 
gret. The  leaves  at  last  drop  willingly 
to  their  rest.  There  is  no  struggle. 
All  things  are  working  towards  a 
destiny  that  from  the  beginning  has 
been  clearly  manifest.  We  may  well 
weep  over  life  cut  down  before  its 
time.  We  may  break  our  hearts  over 
things  that  might  have  been  had  cer- 
tain planetary  bodies  come  in  conjunc- 
tion at  the  proper  time.  But  the  normal 
closing  of  careers  that  have  wrought 
that  which  has  from  the  beginning  been 
assigned  should  bring  not  sorrow  but 
real  satisfaction.  The  devastation  of 
a  waving  wheatfield  ere  the  grain  has 
filled  affords  just  cause  for  lamentation. 
Not  so  the  yellow  garniture  of  the 
heavy-laden  sheaves;  for  Boaz  has  his 
rich  reward,  and  Ruths  may  glean  as 
the  reapers  pass. 

[141] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

The  ancients  celebrated  the  "har- 
vest home,"  even  as  we  should  still. 
From  time  "whereof  the  memory  of 
man  runneth  not  to  the  contrary"  the 
ripening  of  the  grapes  of  industry  has 
been  made  the  occasion  of  feasting  and 
rejoicing.  The  "  Good-bye  to  Sum- 
mer" is  not  necessarily  a  song  of  sad- 
ness. Rather  should  it  be  hailed  as 
a  true  hymn  of  triumph.  In  the 
apparent  end  is  the  eternal  promise 
of  the  future. 

During  our  last  few  weeks  in  the  open 
the  air  takes  on  a  peculiarly  exhilarat- 
ing quality.  The  stars  sparkle  brighter 
overhead.  Through  dreamy  days  the 
blue  haze  hangs  steadily  on  the  horizon. 
The  gregarious  wild  canaries  stop  with 
us  over-night  on  their  long  flight  to- 
wards the  sunny  south;  and  out  of  the 
darkness  overhead  there  comes  that 
truest  of  all  calls  of  the  primeval  world 
—  the  "honk-honk"  of  wild  geese  fly- 
ing swiftly  through  the  night  on  wings 
unwearied. 

[142! 


The  Beginnings  of  Tomorrow 

And  so  we  gather  the  ripened  seeds 
and  clear  the  ground  of  the  frosted 
flower-stalks  in  the  garden,  and  pre- 
pare the  rose  vines  against  the  advent 
of  midwinter  days.  We  know  that 
the  trees  and  shrubbery  have  already 
formed  the  nucleus  of  the  new  year's 
foliage;  and  we  turn  away  with  thank- 
ful hearts  in  certain  knowledge  of  the 
beauty  that  will  rise  again. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Back  to  the  Bright  Lights 

Around  the  Auditorium's  grim,  gray 
tower  one  bleak  December  night  the 
lake  winds  howled  and  whirling  snow- 
flakes  drifted.  City  and  country  alike 
were  in  the  embrace  of  the  first  bliz- 
zard of  the  season.  Up  and  down  the 
busy  boulevard  the  myriad  lights  of 
taxicabs  and  limousines  were  gleam- 
ing. 

Farrar's  Carmen  may  be  all  right, 
but  most  of  those  who  rolled  Loop-wards 
on  the  night  of  which  we  speak  pre- 
ferred her  Madame  Butterfly;  and  all 
were  happy  when  the  storm-bound 
city  streets  outside  had  been  exchanged 
for  the  atmosphere  of  spring  and  cherry 
blossoms  with  which  the  stage-setting 
for  this  opera  is  invested. 

[i45l 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

The  tragedy  moved  forward  to  its 
climax.  Personally,  I  have  never 
thanked  the  author  of  this  libretto  for 
saddling  upon  an  officer  of  the  United 
States  Navy  the  opprobrium  that 
naturally  falls  to  Lieutenant  Pinkerton 
in  the  play.  Moreover,  the  character 
of  Butterfly  herself  is  no  more  Jap- 
anese than  Pinkerton  is  typically 
American.  Both  would  fit  more  logi- 
cally into  Latin  rather  than  northern 
environments.  Besides,  the  psychol- 
ogy of  the  situation  presented  is  inimical 
to  the  cultivation  of  that  spirit  of 
mutual  respect  and  consideration  which 
is  so  greatly  to  be  desired  at  this  time 
between  the  nations.  The  desertion 
of  the  trusting  female  Nipponese  by 
a  man  wearing  Uncle  Sam's  uniform, 
even  although  the  fanciful  creation  of 
the  imagination,  when  publicly  paraded 
in  grand  opera,  is  not  calculated  to 
stir  the  pride  of  any  American,  nor 
stimulate  the  halting  friendship  of  our 
trans-Pacific  neighbors.  However,  this 
[146] 


Back  to  the  Bright  Lights 


is  not  to  be  an  essay  on  a  topic 
purely  speculative  nor  a  study  in 
comparative  ethnology.  We  can  at 
least  enjoy  Puccini's  art  and  Farrar's, 
and  forget  international  relationships 
in  the  presence  of  the  working  of 
elemental  passions. 

Under  the  magic  spell  of  Campanini's 
wand,  great  waves  of  harmony  break 
and  roll  and  die  away  in  the  remotest 
reaches  of  the  farthest  galleries;  and 
as  the  last  echoes  of  a  real  orchestral 
triumph  are  lost  somewhere  amidst 
the  heights  and  depths  of  the  lofty 
walls,  I  am  carried  back  in  spirit  to  a 
day  in  the  distant  past.  You  who 
have  never  heard  the  angels  singing 
among  the  majestic  arches  of  old  York 
Minster,  as  the  thousand-tongued 
organ  floods  that  vast  cathedral's  rich 
interior,  have  something  yet  to  live 
for.  And  if  you  cannot  thus  indulge 
yourself,  at  least  buy  William  Winter's 
little  book  of  gems,  "Gray  Days  and 
Gold,"  and  enjoy  a  poet's  inspiration. 

[i47] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

The  power  of  great  music  over  an 
imaginative  soul  is  absolute. 

And  now  poor  Butterfly  is  standing 
at  the  window  in  her  all-night  vigil. 
The  lights  have  been  turned  off  through- 
out the  body  of  the  theatre.  Only  the 
soft  glow  reflected  from  the  stage  out- 
lines the  brilliant  audience.  The  violins 
sing  sweetly  their  plaintive  messages. 

If  you  would  enjoy  grand  opera  to 
its  utmost,  centre  not  your  mind  too 
much  upon  the  puppets  up  in  front. 
Concentrate  not  at  all  upon  the  vo- 
calization, however  perfect.  With 
all  your  faculties  alert  listen  intently 
rather  to  the  story  being  told  by  strings 
and  reeds  and  brass.  All  else  is  sec- 
ondary. When  I  am  blind  then  take 
me  still  to  opera. 

Two  thousand  human  hearts  are 
being  played  upon,  even  as  the  artiste 
there  in  front  is  sweeping  with  delicate 
touch  the  responsive  chords  of  that 
golden  harp.  A  perfume  of  roses  is 
wafted  from  the  boxes.  There  is  glint 
[148] 


Back  to  the  Bright  Lights 


of  jewels  flashing  in  the  semi-darkness. 
You  have  touch  of  elbow,  mayhap,  as 
you  sit  in  hushed  expectancy,  with 
those  who  are  near  and  dear.  You 
feel  the  exaltation  of  the  hour.  For- 
gotten is  the  daily  grind.  Forgotten 
the  frozen  cabbies  of  the  curb  outside, 
and  the  motor  fleet  in  waiting  in  the 
snowy  midnight.  You  are  soothed  or 
saddened,  depressed,  uplifted,  satisfied 
or  comforted  and  your  imagination 
stirred  just  according  as  your  mood, 
your  individual  capacity,  or  attending 
circumstances  may  admit. 

An  hour  later  in  the  warmth  and 
comfort  of  the  library,  I  viewed 
many  things  in  retrospect.  Happy  as 
I  had  surely  been  under  the  witchery 
of  those  high  appeals  to  the  finer  sen- 
sibilities, my  mind  kept  ever  turning 
back  from  a  contemplation  of  the 
cherry  blooms  with  which  poor  Cho 
Cho  San  had  decked  her  little  home  in 
honor  of  the  coming  of  her  lover  to  a 
cottage  in  the  wood  where  the  romance 

[i49] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

of  real  life  has  a  setting  on  a  truly 
sylvan  stage,  where  the  passing  of  the 
years  has  left  some  vacant  places 
'round  the  fireside,  where  peace  and 
happiness  and  sweet  content  have  had 
a  real  existence. 

I  often  wish  I  were  not  compelled  to 
migrate  each  October  from  that  little 
nest  among  the  trees.  I  often  wish  I 
might  remain  through  snow-bound 
winter  days  and  nights,  and  so  keep 
always  close  to  Nature's  heart.  But 
my  life  has  not  been  so  ordered  by  the 
fates.  I  say  farewell  to  Dumbiedykes 
each  autumn  only  because  a  call  that 
comes  from  a  certain  office  desk  is  not 
to  be  ignored  if  I  am  still  to  pursue 
appointed  tasks.  And  so  when  North 
winds  whirl  the  dead  leaves  down  the 
road  we  must  prepare  to  go.  Fortu- 
nately this  is  a  compensating  world. 
He  who  seeks  may  find.  Even  in  the 
bright  lights  of  a  great  city's  manifold 
activities  there  are  fruits  and  flowers 
worth  while.  Nights  that  are  "filled 

[150] 


Back  to  the  Bright  Lights 


with  music"  may  usually  be  relied  upon 
to  dissipate  the  "cares  that  infest  the 
day."  I  certainly  do  love  the  roses  and 
the  orchids  and  the  song-birds  of  the 
opera.  But  after  all  the  coin  is  coun- 
terfeit. And  so  at  last  I  come  back 
always  to  the  picture  of  a  certain  peace- 
ful spot  where  bright  old-fashioned 
flowers  are  waving  in  the  summer  air, 
where  hollyhocks  do  rear  their  decora- 
tive heads,  where  the  delicate  fragrance 
of  the  four-o'clock  is  spread  upon  the 
night  breeze  as  the  sun  goes  down, 
where  a  catbird  perches  on  a  honey- 
locust  bough  and  twitters  through  his 
cheery  repertoire  as  his  mate  sits  on 
the  nest  beneath  him  in  the  hedge. 

I  confess  the  alluring  charm  of 
Oriental  pearls  about  my  lady's  neck, 
and  of  diamonds  glittering  gaily  in  the 
bright  lights;  but  on  an  early  morn  in 
June  there  are  a  million  jewels  in  the 
bluegrass  that  put  all  your  gems  of 
"purest  ray  serene"  to  shame;  and 
when  at  dusk  the  glowing  Venus  holds 

[151] 


The  Road  to  Dumbiedykes 

her  evening  court,  the  highest  art  of 
Tiffany  pales  quickly  into  insignifi- 
cance. And  as  for  Mary  Garden — well, 
there  is  one  thing  sure:  no  note,  how- 
ever highly-paid  or  pitched  that  ever 
floated  o'er  the  footlights  of  any  stage 
in  all  this  world  can  bear  comparison 
with  those  that  ripple  from  the  bursting 
throat  of  a  joy-mad  bobolink  or  match 
the  sweetest  sound  this  earth  affords 

—  the  distant  call  of  a  meadow  lark 
across  green  fields. 

And  yet  there  is  one  note  —  though 
it  is  not  given  to  everyone  to  hear  it 

—  transcending  even  these:   the  note 
your  heart  finds  in  the  voice  of  one 
you  love. 


PRINTED  BY  R.  R.  DONNELLEY 
AND  SONS  COMPANY  AT  THE 
LAKESIDE  PRESS,  CHICAGO,  ILL. 


. 

JQ^H  crs 


469701 


r. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


